Make it Better
by Yulicey
Summary: There's a soul in the sword, because Aura is the essence and power of the soul isn't it? And when people live and fight and bleed and die with their weapon in their hands, who's to say that something can't form out of that? He can hear it, and that makes all the difference.
1. Chapter 1

"Speaking"

' _Thoughts'_

 _Something else_

 _Jaune_

He's 13 years old, finally old enough to get a weapon _his very own weapon_ to train with. And it's so exciting he doesn't eat breakfast, just sits at the table willing his father to ' _hurry up'_ while his sisters eat and chat lightly around him. His hands tightly clenched along the edges to keep from vibrating in his seat from pure unadulterated _joy,_ because he wants to help people, wants to be a hunter, a _hero,_ and this is the first step.

Minutes later through the haze of joy and morning chatter Jaune hears the creak of his father's bedroom door, and the muted shuffling of old worn slippers against carpet as he _somehow_ safely stumbles his way downstairs and into the kitchen. Blindly plodding around in little circles until he slumps against the countertop with a _smack!_ and a groan of "Gnd mornng."

"Good morning dad!" They all say, before the girls quickly settle back into their conversation. "Dude I'm telling you you're wrong. Besides you drink coffee with _cream,_ your opinions are invalid." While Jaune gently leads him by arm into his chair, letting him slump in his seat until he's awake enough to not be a danger to himself. Before quickly grabbing a plate of waffles off the counter and sliding it in front of his dad's seat. Then pulling it back a few inches to make sure that he won't face-plant into them _._ (Once was enough thank you.)

A minute later their father straightens in his seat, absently wiping at a trail of drool on his cheek with his right hand. And Jaune has to cough into his hand as his father flares his other hand in a vague resemblance of the middle finger in the general direction of his daughters' giggles.

Clearing his throat he turns towards Jaune; saying in a voice that is _probably?_ supposed to warm and fatherly, but comes out sounding more like a disturbing combination of a whine and the rasp of a slowly dying animal, "Jne C'fee."

With a roll of his eyes that's too fond to actually mean anything Jaune makes his way to the rather small pantry tucked in the corner of the kitchen. (Pausing only to tease the hair of his twin sister Jane and "aww" annoyingly at her answering scowl, because who cares if she's older by a minute, doesn't mean he can't be the annoying brother.) Sliding the door open and groping around endlessly in the vain hope of actually finding the "C'fee." Shouting back over his shoulder at the table, "You just have such a way with words dad, shoulda been a poet not a huntsman." Adding a, "Love you too dad!" At his answering middle finger.

After a few more failed attempts (and many muttered curses in frustration that have him ducking his head further in to avoid his older sister's scolding glares). His wrist brushes against something plastic with a dull thunk ' _ow_ ' and with a hum of satisfaction Jaune pulls the coffee tin from its confines. Sliding the pantry door shut Jaune turns around ready to make his dad coffee. It's been his job since he was eight and he does it (mostly) without complaint, because he loves him and all that other "snuggly shit" as Jean once put it.

He pauses when he looks back at the table, his dad is sat back in his chair mumbling vague somewhat answers to his daughter's questions, "Can Emma stay over tonight? Can I go shopping today? How did you sleep daddy?" All eyes are on his dad and Jaune is suddenly part of the background, like when he was a kid and his sisters would play games together like "tag" while he would just sit and watch. Which is fine. He's the youngest of 7- _8_ kids, being ignored kinda comes with the territory, besides they never phase him out for too long anyways.

So he makes his way over to the coffee machine on the counter, absently listening in as he goes through the usual steps, "Bri can you think of anyways I can actually _use_ my semblance?" Janet asks.

Jaune flinches in sympathy when he hears the telltale 'thump' of her head against the table ' _That's_ _gonna_ _leave_ _a_ _mark._ ' "I mean "kinetic manipulation" is great and everything." If it were possible to choke on sarcasm Janet would be so dead right now.

"But I don't have any ideas! So what good does that do me?" Brianna at least has the courtesy to mock-pat her twin on the back, "There there, I'm sure you'll think of something."

Suddenly an idea pops into his head, and before he even thinks it through he says it. "Rotation."

All eyes are on him now, and even if two of his sisters have moved out, it doesn't make it less unnerving to have only five people staring at him instead of seven. Janet clears her throat and Jaune remembers that oh yeah, he kinda said something.

"What was that Jaune?" She asks, there's a little quirk hidden in her smile and he honestly isn't sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Jaune clears his throat suddenly very happy for the countertop wedged against his back, "Assuming that your semblance is _just_ manipulation." At her confused look he clarifies, "Like if something is falling straight down you can't make it suddenly shoot off to the left. You can only make it fall faster or slower right?"

At her nod he continues "Rotation then. Bullets rotate as they move right? Couldn't you speed up the rotation to the right and make it move faster, or eliminate drop-off?" He shrugs, "Hell you could probably slow down the rotation to go for non-lethal shots, or like suddenly drop the bullet if the target ducks or goes behind cover."

Janet perks up, "That's a great idea Jaune!" Then slumps back against the table.

"Oh wait one problem. I don't use guns." She waves her sword in the air as emphasis before dropping it back down to her belt loop.

Jaune feels his face flush, "I wasn't done yet!" He says.

Pointing at Brianna he asks, "You use guns right?" She rolls her eyes and holds up a pistol as her answer,

"Your semblance is kinetic reflection isn't it?" At her nod he continues, "You see what I'm getting at here?"

They look at each other, blink, then turn to him, " _Kinda."_ They say in unison and the wall suddenly looks like a very nice place to bash his head against. Brianna pipes up again, "It's good in theory but I'm just not sure how it'll work out in practice." She fingers the pistol's hammer as she speaks. "Ya know when we're in the heat of the moment, will we be able to react fast enough to work together?"

Jaune sighs. Walks over to his seat and grabs his knife before doing an about-face and walking back to his spot by the coffee maker, "But do you think it could work?" He asks. They look at each other then at him, "Yeah." they say in unison

He faces the table. Spins the knife between his fingers and catches the blade between his thumb and middle finger. " _One"_ catch, " _two"_ catch, " _three"_ catch, " _four"_ catch, " _five"_ catch. " _Got it."_

He spins it a sixth time, catches it hard between his fingers, and throws it at Janet's head as hard as he can. It whistles through the air for only a moment before Brianna's hand glows white against the oaken tabletop, and suddenly there's a hole in the wall next to his head.

Amidst the sudden silence he makes his way back to the table plopping down in his seat while the rest of them are still gaping and drops the knife blade (now sans handle) back onto his napkin. He laughs at the twins stunned faces, "What you thought I actually threw a knife at you? I'm hurt." He says with a mock pout. "Although." He says sheepishly unclenching his right hand and revealing the blood running between his fingers, "Could you just trust me next time?"

Their father clears his throat and Jaune can only turn and stare because " _Oh_ _shit" "_ Yeah I'm really in trouble aren't I?" He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, "Sorry?"

Even though Jaune didn't really do anything wrong _per se,_ he doesn't get off scot free. His dad is rather...gleeful in his informing that for the next year (as part of his newly started training) he'll be his sister's "target dummy" for _their_ training. And Jaune can only stare horrified at the smile on his dad's face because he is so _so_ doomed.

His dad just laughs deep and loud, stands from his seat at the table, and pats him on the shoulder in a way that is probably supposed to comforting. "I know. Now let's go get you your weapon, I can't leave you to get _completely_ slaughtered. That would be too boring."

"Ya know, whenever I thought about where our family stored our weapons I always imagined an armory of some sort, with walls piled high to the roof with spoils of war, or like...a safe maybe." He twirls his wrist for effect, "Ya know what I never imagined dad? Our goddamned _attic."_

Jaune can't help but comment on his father's reaction, "I've really outdone myself dad, that's a whole new shade of blue for you." His father's response of more choking noises kind of makes Jaune want to take a picture and capture the historic moment when sarcasm actually killed someone.

Ignoring his dad's funny choking noises he grabs an axe, feels the weight of the dark metal against his palm and gives it a few test swings to test the balance. At least until it slips out of his hand on the third swing, just narrowly avoiding embedding in his foot as it hits the floor. Jaune just sighs, ' _today is going to be one of_ those _days isn't it?'_

Thirty minutes later and they haven't made any significant progress towards finding a weapon that fits. Just two large piles on the floor that Jaune honestly wants to burn, "Just a little dad I promise, just a little burning, _please."_ And a migraine that's been developing behind his eyes since they'd started.

The worst part is that every single time he has to turn to his dad, and see his hopeful pride turn into thinly-veiled disappointment every time he says, "No."

Jaune can feel the steady pounding against his temple getting even worse and hear the sigh of his dad as he tries to comfort him, "It's okay son, just try another one. You'll find one that works."

Something snaps inside him then, because he _needs_ to help people. Has been raised on tales of his ancestors heroics for bedtime stories and in history lessons, and this is _all_ he wants to do. The only thing he might actually be good at, and he isn't going to fail before they've even started.

Grabbing an axe Jaune hurls it at the pile of weaponry, "Dammit!" The sound it makes as it sends weapons clanging to the floor is more satisfying than it has any right to be.

The silence that follows is deafening, with him not daring to move, to _breathe_. There's blood roaring loudly in his ears, slowly fading back into a dull aching throb, and all he wants is to take it back, do anything to stop the questions that he's sure are coming.

Elias doesn't say anything, just quietly stares at his son's back.

Somehow that makes Jaune feel even worse. His head tilts down in shame, and it's then that he spies the sword at the bottom of the pile, set in a polished white sheath with a hilt wrapped in dark blue cloth. There's a gold crescent moon on the sheath that looks oddly familiar and he picks it up to get a closer look. It's not like he can do anything worse.

The moment he touches it a chill runs down his spine, and there's something suddenly nudging in the back of his head that whispers, _You should remember this, why don't you remember? Draw the blade Draw the blade Drawtheblade._ It's faint, just barely on the edge of his consciousness but oh so _tempting._ So he does, sliding it from the sheath carefully and when it's free he examines the blade, contrary to his expectations it's pristine with no visible marks on it anywhere.

There's a faint numbing buzz against his fingertips and Jaune has the strangest feeling that the sword itself is... _excited_. Then something nudges again and he remembers _,_ " _Crocea Mors."_

His dad has been worryingly silent the entire time and Jaune turns back to find him just staring, he shuffles guiltily at the intensity of his gaze. Holding up the sword Jaune breaks the silence, "This one."

His dad's stare goes up several notches in intensity from those two words alone, clearing his throat he speaks, "Are you sure?" His expression is oddly mysterious under the dim light of the attic.

Something nudges at the back of his head again and without even thinking he answers, "Yeah." There's another nudge, at his neck this time, and a rush of warmth that soothes his pounding temple tells him that was the right thing to say.

His dad only looks at him and Jaune can't help that feel he's done something even worse. His expression hasn't changed in the slightest, but there's something in his stance, a sudden downward slump of his shoulders and the way one leg is leaned slightly over the other that makes him uneasy. Jaune opens his mouth to ask if his dad is okay, but Elias speaks first, _"_ Ok _."_ and that's all he says before trudging back down the ladder.

Jaune moves to follow, but something makes him stop and turn back to the room.

Something's weird, because attics are supposed to hold antiques or photo albums and stuff like that right? And they are here, set in little nooks and crannies throughout the room; but why are there so many weapons? Where did they come from? And who the hell did they belong to before being stored here? There are more weapons in this attic than people in his immediate family tree so clearly his family got them from somewhere.

Realization sets in and he shudders. " _Oh."_

Death isn't exactly a foreign concept to him. When your entire family from your dad to your sisters are hunters it's hard not to have at least an _idea_.

When Jean had first started out as a huntress at 15 one of her missions had gone bad, according to her the client they were supposed to meet up with had been part of the bandits they were being "hired" to arrest. Jaune doesn't really know the rest of the details, and he sure as shit isn't going to _ask_ for them. But what he does know is that when Jean had come home she was...different. More solemn and less talkative, hell for a couple months she hadn't taken any jobs, just stayed home and played with Jane.

Until a few months later she'd just suddenly started taking jobs again, although she doesn't take jobs where you have to meet up with the client anymore. "Too messy." She had explained with a sneer on her face and a strangely emotionless look in her eye, "Besides I don't want to accidentally piss em' off, I'd get paid less, so it's a win-win for me."

There's a part of him he doesn't like to acknowledge that knows what happened, that remembers the night when he had gone to get a glass of water and found Jean crying in the kitchen, her head bent over something and her shoulders trembling from the effort of muffling her sobs. And a bathroom smelling of bleach, with light crimson stains running down the sinks.

He knows that at some point he'll have to kill too, and that's the worst part. It isn't a "maybe" or a "possibly" _;_ it's sheer inevitable _fact_. That if a hunter lives long enough they will kill someone.

How many people have died under the blade clasped in his hand? Was it even worth counting in the first place? Or was it better for hunters to just not think about that, to bury it deep under layers of vice and violence until they honestly don't care anymore?

In the low light of the attic he whispers, "How many people have died under this sword?"

For a moment he feels vaguely ridiculous talking to a sword of all things, it isn't exactly like it can talk back. Even if what happened before wasn't just his imagination, a vague nudge in the back of his head isn't exactly a good way to convey numbers.

 _I don't know._ Comes the answer and he nearly drops it in surprise. It's barely above a whisper in his mind, feather-light and muffled like when somebody shouts from another room, but it's there. Another nudge this time, just slightly firmer and a feeling like fingers on his cheek, _I'm_ _sorry._

It isn't lying. There's remorse in the metal vibrating against his fingertips and a sharp tang of what feels like regret gathering at the back of his throat. Being able to understand that is probably the most disturbing part.

The sword tumbles through his hands with a clang, and he clambers back down the ladder, at least until he face-plants on the landing. He kicks the ladder up with his foot and the attic door swings closed with a 'bang!'

He practically sprints back to the kitchen. Only stopping when his older sister Jean has him by the arm with the other one roughly held behind his back.

"Nope!" She says, brushing freshly wet hair out of her eyes. "You're not getting out of this that easily Jauney! You're training with me today, doesn't that sound great!"

Through gritted teeth " _Fuck_ _this_ _hurts_ " he manages to say, "But I don't even have a weapon." And he has to smile because she can't really argue with that.

At least until she pulls him arm further behind his back, "Did you concuss yourself again Jauney?" He can hear the smirk in her voice, "If you don't have a weapon, then what's this sword doing on the floor?" He hears the dull scraping of metal against wood as she slides it into his line of vision, all he can do is stare. " _I left it upstairs, I know I did."_ It just doesn't make sense.

His thoughts are broken by his sister dragging him towards the back door. Shoulder-checking it open and shoving him down the stairs onto the still wet grass.

Jaune scrambles to his feet facing Jean his mouth open to say something...Until Jean clamps a hand over his mouth, "Nope!" She repeats, "You're training with me and that's that." She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out...something?

Jaune can feel the blood drain from his face as Jean wraps her knuckles in boxing tape.

 _'I am so screwed'_

Biting off the end she pulls it tight and gives Jaune a grin that in no way eases his fear. Placing a hand on his head she twists, and Jaune is suddenly staring at the tree line behind their house.

"I'll give you a minute head start, but after that I'm coming after you." Jaune can just _hear_ the vicious grin on her face. "At least put up a fight will ya, don't make this _too_ easy."

With that she shoves hard on his back and Jaune is sent sprawling. Crocea Mors lands hard against his leg a moment after, "Oops almost forgot about that!" Jean says and she sounds just so _happy_ about it, like she's won a prize or something, and he is so so screwed.

"59, 58, 57, You should be running!" She sing-songs at him.

He stumbles to his feet, narrowly avoids falling again "Damn rocks!" and starts sprinting off towards the treeline.

Jean mock-wipes tears off her cheek. "Aww, they grow up so fast."

 **Re-edited: November 28th 2015**


	2. Chapter 2

"Speaking"

' _Thoughts'_

 _Something else/flashback_

 _Jaune_

He's crouched at the base of a tree with his back set against the bark, muffling curses of annoyance every time his clothes catch on a rough patch. There's forest in every direction spanning outward for miles, and he can't help but notice that it's disturbingly quiet for midday.

Normally the woods encompassing his village are absolutely teeming with wildlife, ranging from the average woodland creatures like squirrels and wolves. To the much more deadly Grimm, although thankfully the only ones around Nomas consist mostly of Ursae, and the occasional Beowulf pack when they wander too far south.

Today though, there's only rustling leaves and the occasional bird call, and where the hell are all the animals because it's not like an entire forest-worth of creatures can just up and _disappear_. So they're hiding from something. And if there's one he's sure of it's that it most certainly isn't him. The hairs on his neck are steadily rising in anticipation, gooseflesh following right behind it, but for what? So far nothing's actually happened.

Although even to him the plan is somewhat obvious, Jean's trying to lure him into making the 1st move. His understanding trips, stumbles off a cliff, and dies past that point. Because Jean has no reason _whatsoever_ to be anywhere even approaching cautious. If they were to actually fight head-on with Jean going all out. Jaune shivers at the thought, a chill snaking it's way down his spine; it would be nothing short of a bloodbath.

 _You certainly are confident,_ That voice says again, and Jaune has to bite his tongue to keep from squealing like a particularly wimpy child. On a hunch he glares down at the sheathed sword in his hand, ' _Don't do that!'_

His theory is confirmed when a sound like wind chimes plays loud in the back of his head, and it takes a moment before he realizes that the sword is _laughing_ at him. ' _Dammit.'_ Just his luck too, that he chooses the sword that's a jerk. The fact that he can even think that with a straight face is a sign that yes indeed, this is a very weird day.

His thoughts are interrupted by a loud crack to the right and a harsh shove at the back of his head that screams, _Move!_ He dives to the right just in time to watch Jean fly over his head, and punch the tree instead of his face; apparently she got tired of waiting. For a moment they lock eyes and Jaune can only stare at the pile of splinters that used to be part of a tree, and he is _sooo_ screwed.

There's another nudge, _Keep moving!_ So he scrambles to his feet and dashes deeper into the forest hoping to lose Jean in the ensuing rush.

The trees ahead are littered with branches, some hanging only a scant few inches above his head. He swings the sword up as he runs, chopping clean through them and leaving a small trail of debris in his wake. It probably won't do much, or even less than that, but something tells him she's right on his tail. And he'll take whatever minuscule amount of time it buys him to escape.

He pivots on his heel, slips as his momentum slides him a bit too far to the right. And stumble-runs his way forward through the trees to his left, panting the entire time. He runs diagonally between the tree trunks to try and break line of sight long enough to hide. It doesn't work, if the sound of branches cracking overhead is any indication, Jean's been keeping pace from above the whole time.

Jaune fights down the anger rising in his chest, there's a time and place to lose his temper and It feels like an almost cruel dismissal of his effort, then again why should he expect anything different? Him and Jean have never had the...best of relationships to put it lightly. A four year age difference coupled with three slightly older sisters for her to play with instead of him will do that.

A loud thud echoes through the trees and he's instantly on alert, scanning his surroundings for the slightest hint to his sister's location. A footprint, displaced dirt, a crack in the tree bark for crying out loud, but there isn't any. Which just makes this situation more frustrating, because she screwed up and gave away her position, and he knows she's _somewhere_ nearby, probably right over his goddamn head. But he isn't good enough to do anything about it.

 _Duck!_ the sword screams and Jaune drops to the ground hard enough to rattle the teeth in his skull. While Jean flies past him screaming "Dammit!"

He hauls himself to his feet and turns to run again. Only to come face to face with Jean, and wow she looks _really_ pissed. Fast as lightning she crushes his right hand in an iron grip, and pulls them face to face, "How did you think that would work?" She sounds angry, as if the very idea of his plan working is so laughable that it's a direct insult to her abilities as a huntress.

"I'm not stupid, ya know." Jean squeezes harder and he screams when he can feel the bones in his fingers start to creak as Crocea Mors tumbles from between his fingers.

Her lips are drawn back in a familiar snarl that sends a chill down his spine, _"It's your fault they're gone_." _She says her face drawn back in an expression of pure hatred, "Why couldn't you just keep your stupid mouth shut?"_ In an act of desperation he swings at her face wildly with his other arm ' _letgoletgoletgo.'_

Jean just winds back and headbutts him in the nose momentarily stunning him as his vision blurs. She pulls her arm back and jabs him in the chest once and he can feel his ribs blossom with pain. Twice and they creak painfully. Three times and there's a cracking sensation in his chest that makes his eyes bulge as all the air is forced out of his lungs. Jean finally lets go of his wrist and he stumbles back drunkenly, somehow still on his feet, before the strength is seemingly sapped from his limbs and he falls to one arm retching against the dirt.

Jean crouches down on the balls of her feet bringing them face to face. Staring impassively at his injured form as he empties his stomach over the ground.

"Ya know, this isn't over until you can't fight anymore. The goal isn't to make me back up or hit me or any of that bullshit that we both know isn't gonna happen; because frankly: you suck. It's to see how long you can last _."_ The scenery shifts and settles rapidly before his eyes and he has to fight to stay conscious.

"Oh! and ya can't outrun me so I don't really get why you even tried in the first place. Fighting me head on isn't gonna work either. 'Cause unfortunately I'm just flat-out better than you." She sing-songs in his ear and seriously Jean is enjoying this way too much.

She grabs him suddenly by the chin and forces him to look into her eyes. "So what are you gonna do Jauney, how much longer can you last? You'd better hope you don't disappoint me." She's gone the next moment leaping back into the treeline and disappearing in the branches.

HIs arm gives out and Jaune collapses to the ground, before flipping onto his back with a scream of pain, his spine arching off the floor in agony while he paws feebly at his chest with his aching hand. ' _What the hell did she do to me?_ ' It feels like an eternity before the pain fades from pure molten hell in his chest to a dull constant throb. His muscles finally untense and he falls back down to the soil with a groan. For a minute he just lies there, trying to catch his breath.

There's a nudge, _Get up._ a groan of pain is his response. Let Jean come back, he's too beaten to care anymore. Cold fingers are at the back of his neck, it's an oddly comforting sensation, with an almost tender edge. _You can do this._ A chill floods through his body again before pooling in his chest, and the pain eases into a cool numbness, it helps. Not a lot, but enough to count. _Now get up._

With a groan Jaune hauls himself back into a sitting position with his legs kept tucked under him. With one hand on his knee he moves to stand. Only for his ribs to flare up again, sending white hot pain lancing through his chest once more, he tries to grit his teeth and bear it. Until another flash of pain hits, and a scream tears itself free from his throat before being muffled behind his teeth. He collapses back onto his knees, sweat pouring down his face panting heavily at the effort. ' _Crap she really did some damage. How am I supposed to defend myself against that if I can't even stand?_

Jaune decides to try another idea, slowly shuffling through the dirt on his shins until he reaches a tree trunk. With one hand against the bark and another held against his aching torso he slowly but surely hauls himself to his feet. It _hurts_ , his ribs still catch rough and jagged if he tries to rush, but it's a far cry better than doing it unassisted.

Ignoring the absolute agony that is his rib cage he lifts Crocea Mors from it's place on the floor and draws it, clutching the sword tight in his right hand, the sheath hanging loosely in his aching left. _Smart idea,_ it snarks in his head _Should have done it earlier though,_ He ignores that too because sass is _really_ not needed right now, especially not from a sword thank-you very much.

Looking down at the sheath an idea takes form in his head, because in the stories hadn't there been something else that was special about the sword? _'This thing is a shield too isn't it?'_

He gets a scoff in response. _Yes._ It says and he can feel hope gathering in his chest, _Don't be an idiot,_ before the sword crushes it beneath (its? His/Her? Whatever) heel. _She'd break your arm._ It's harsh but true, what good is a shield if his arm can't take the strain of blocking an attack in the first place?

So he tosses that idea aside for another time. But something's weird because he hadn't known where Jean was. Sure he'd had an _idea,_ it was impossible not to when branches were literally cracking overhead _._ But an idea is a far cry from actually knowing, and if he didn't know, how the hell did a _sword_?

He brings the sword up to his face. ' _I'm assuming from your warnings that you can sense her movements?' Yes I can,_ it replies and Jaune wants to bash his head against the nearest tree when he feels a kind of smug pride buzzing against his fingertips. Because he just had to-just couldn't possibly not choose the sword with an _ego_.

' _Will you help me then?'_ He asks, quickly adding a ' _Please?'_ at the end, don't want to offend it or some shit like that. There's another web of cold that spreads from his fingertips to his toes and eases (at least somewhat) the ache in his wrist. _I would love to._ It chirps happily.

He starts walking aimlessly through the trees as they think, one arm clutching his aching ribs, the other held tight around Crocea Mors' handle. Better to be a moving target than a stationary one, although from what Jean said before that probably won't do much, if anything. But it's a comfort at least and he'll take it.

'Then _what's the best plan for right now?'_ He asks, ' _Because I'm probably as good as dead on the ground.'_ But the trees might be an even worse place, if Jean can't fully mask her movements up there, _he_ sure as well won't be able to.

 _Well you're right about that._ It replies _._ There's a tapping sensation on the right side of his chest and Jaune's breath hitches at the unexpected pain. ' _What the hell are you doing?'_

 _She cracked two ribs._ Crocea Mors replies and cold spreads outward in his chest easing the pain once more. _Trying to make it bearable._ It doesn't do much, but he can breathe deeply now. Which is ya-know...nice.

A part of him is admittedly touched by the gesture, he promptly tells that part to shove it before the sword can hear it, or...sense it, or whatever the hell it does. ' _Not that I'm not thankful, but how are you doing that?'_ He asks because since when can a weapon do that? It wasn't ever mentioned in any of the stories he'd heard as a kid.

There's a flash of irritation that he chooses to interpret as "I'll tell you later."

 _Focus on the girl above us._

Realization sets in when leaves flutter down in front of his face, ' _I fucking hate everything.'_

There's the cracking of tree bark and Jean's shadow overhead as she comes down a few feet in front of him. One glance at her feet and the footprints her landing didn't leave behind sends a jolt of fear down his spine, ' _She's making noise on purpose.'_ He doesn't run, doesn't try, because what's the point when the most he'll get is _maybe_ a minute or two of time? Sure he can make up plans on the fly, but he isn't a miracle worker, and if he wants to get out of this without getting hit again a miracle is what he needs. Shame those seem to be in short supply this season.

She doesn't even put up the illusion of effort, one knee bent at an angle and shoulders slumped lazily forward, her right hand in her pocket while yawning into the other. "I hope you've thought of something Jauney, otherwise this is gonna be more boring than it already is."

Anger flares hot and wild in his stomach ' _oh goddammit'_ and he doesn't think. Just grips Crocea Mors tightly with both hands and hopes that this doesn't end with another pair of cracked ribs.

He slashes down _hard_ at her chest in an attempt to interrupt whatever she might be about to do.(Because even with one hand in her pocket and nothing even slightly resembling a fighting stance, it's still Jean and that more than makes up for it.)

She lazily taps on the flat of the blade with her fingertips and deflects it off to the right. Tapping his left arm three times with the same hand as he spins, his left foot having lifted off the ground from the force. There's a moment of blind panic where he expects to take a punch and feel fire spark in his chest again, but Jean doesn't move, and he's momentarily caught off guard as he continues to fall. 'Shit _it's too late to swing back on my feet, I waited too long.'_

 _Turn with the strike. Bring it back._

He digs his right heel into the soil and turns fast, putting the leftover momentum behind a slash at her ribs, she catches it and taps him on the wrist four times in rapid succession, the second she lets go he backs away to get some distance. It doesn't even come close to working, she's too good for that. But it does force her to block, and for a second her eyes widen and she looks _surprised_ before it's buried back under that same lazy smirk, and he'll count that as a victory in itself.

 _You have reach. Use it._ Jean steps towards him to close the gap and he stabs forward in a panic forcing her to backpedal abruptly or risk being impaled on the blade.

There's excitement bubbling up in his throat and a grin snaking its way across his face because _holy shit_ he's actually holding her off. That train of thought is promptly shut down by the mental equivalent of a slap to the back of his head. _Don't get cocky._ _You aren't._

Apparently Jean has the same idea because she's not smiling anymore, and oh god he's doomed. There's a nudge that he barely has time to interpret as _Watch out!_ He tries to move, to dodge but his muscles have barely started tensing before his sister's left leg comes crashing against his already beaten rib cage with a loud _Crack!_

There's white fire lancing through his chest and the world tumbling end over end, his back collides hard with a tree, and he slumps back against it now unable to force himself upright. Mouth open in a silent scream of pain, it's almost certain one of his ribs is broken now, he watches with blurred vision and fear stirring deep and primal in his gut as Jean approaches. Darkness comes soon after.

 _Jaune_

He comes to sometime later, flinching back from the harsh ' _evening?_ ' light as he slowly opens his eyes. He's still slumped against the tree that (presumably) knocked him out in the first place, with Crocea Mors clutched between white-knuckled fingers.

With a groan of pain he unfurls his right hand, letting the sword slide into his lap while he massages his aching head with the left. ' _What happened?'_

 _Blondie knocked you out._ The reply is blunt and there's irritation tickling the back of his throat that he swallows down roughly, just barely managing not to flinch. For some reason the idea of disappointing the sword hurts a hell of a lot more than actually disappointing Jean. Then again Jean is kind of a dick and it was probably an inevitability anyway. The sword had believed in him, even if only a tiny bit it had honestly _truly_ believed that he would succeed, and it hurts to fall below expectations.

' _I'm sorry.'_

 _You got cocky and lost._

No mercy from that corner apparently. His head is pounding horribly like two metal points are slowly being drilled into his skull. Two of his ribs are cracked, possibly broken and his hand hurts like hell, and he's so _tired,_ there's exhaustion pulling and tugging at every little ache in his broken frame, slowly sapping whatever energy he has left. There isn't anyway to "win" this argument, honestly he wonders if this is even an argument, only a few words in and it feels more like a mental beatdown than a discussion.

 _'Stop...please, just-just stop.'_

 _...Okay._

A chill flows through his head. Spreading out and tracing every little line until the pounding headache has faded to a heavenly cold that has him tilting his head back with a groan at just how _good_ it feels. ' _If that was an apology then consider it accepted.'_

 _Good! Now get moving, HOMEWARD MARCH!_

Once his ears have stopped ringing because _loud_. He realizes that there's one little problem with that plan. ' _Where? I don't even know where home is.'_ A cold grip at the back of his neck again, it pushes and he's suddenly looking at the trees off to the left. _Blondie went that way! Now mush!_

Something shoves against his back and Jaune is stumbling to his feet, just barely managing to avoid getting a mouthful of dirt. Wind chimes sound again and he can't manage to suppress a smile. Just such an asshole.

It's dark by the time he finally makes it home, stumbling through the treeline and calling out for somebody to open the door, interspersed periodically with him cursing Jean's name up and down and sideways, "Seriously who does that? More importantly why do you get away with it, it's such bullshit!"

Jane is the one who finally gets him calmed down. It basically involves shoving his aching frame into a chair and threatening not to heal him if he doesn't sit still. But hey, whatever works.

It doesn't however stop him from glaring daggers at the kitchen table while they eat dinner and Jane focuses her semblance into mending his ribcage. Of course he only glares vaguely in her direction, can't actually give her something to get mad about after all. It's petty, and he knows it, but he also knows that with 2 cracked ribs, a concussion, and an angry purple bruise down his back he's allowed to be a little petty for once.

 **Re-edited: November 28th 2015**


	3. Chapter 3

"Speaking"

' _Thoughts'_

 _Something Else_

 _Jaune_

He's stood in the open area behind the house, clad in a simple black hoodie and jeans. With the sword held tight in his right hand and the sheath secured by belt against his left hip. The forest is to the left and the house to his right, and he stares through bleary eyes at Janet standing straight across from him.

' _She's saying something.'_ He realizes watching as she gestures wildly with her hands. Pointing at him, then Crocea Mors, then her sword, before slashing it in a wide horizontal arc. But he's too tired to bother trying to decipher her words. And how the hell is she awake at this time?

"Why are we out here so early? It's 5:00 in the morning dammit." _Agreed._ The sword chirps and he has to deal with the rather _interesting_ sensation of it yawning inside his head.

Janet stops and glares at him in response, and he just yawns into his elbow. "Try again at 7:00 and we'll see how that goes." He snarks, because when you grow up with his sisters it takes something a little bit more creative than a glare and a threat of stabbing to actually be scary.

"Will you just listen for once you-" She stops short and pinches the bridge of her nose, breathes out and continues,"Look." She says and he can't fight down the wave of guilt that rises from that one word. "I know it's boring, I really do. I've heard this lesson more times than I can count. But you have to listen before we can actually start. Okay?"

Jaune nods, making sure to look anywhere but her eyes, he's never really been good with guilt and that still hasn't changed. Janet nods once and continues, "As I was saying, the main problem you'll have with sword fighting is the physical differences between you and your opponent."

At his deadpan stare of complete and total non-surprise she elaborates, "Not like that smartass, I don't mean that the person is stronger than you. Hold out your sword, keep it straight and parallel to the ground." When she sees his confused stare to the seemingly random topic jump she can't suppress a sigh, "Dude, just do it."

He shrugs _'Why not?'_ And holds Crocea Mors straight out with the tip pointing towards Janet while she does the same, "Look at my arm and then yours. See the difference?"

Jaune does as she says and the difference is obvious at even a glance, her arm is at least a couple inches longer than his. (He tries to not feel emasculated by the fact that she has more muscles than him, which is normal. He's three months into thirteen, and the twins are sixteen, but still; ego and all that.) _Don't worry, caveman will get strong. 'Hate you Crocea, so much.'_ "Yeah I see, you're talking about reach right?"

A smile spreads across her face and he feels a frankly sad amount of pride at that, "Yep! Got it in one. Crocea Mors is an arming sword which means it's exactly 35 inches long, with the actual blade accounting for 30 of that. So at 13 and what five-foot five?" Her brow scrunches in contemplation before she brushes past it with a huff. "Anyways, your arm length plus 35 inches is your maximum reach. Until you get taller at least, then the number will obviously get bigger."

At Jaune's rather...overwhelmed expression because oh god math, and this is getting dangerously close to talking about puberty and he will leave _so fast_. She laughs, "Don't worry it's not that complicated, basically just try and remember that if an opponent is using an arming sword too you have to keep their height in mind."

Jaune nods in comprehension, and he does understand, at least somewhat. It isn't exactly a difficult concept to grasp, but what does he _do_ if an enemy is taller? The way Janet describes it makes it sound like it's just an insurmountable disadvantage. "What do I do about it then? Ya know, how do I fight if someone's reach is farther than mine?"

"I'm happy you asked." Janet says with a grin,

"Because to answer that we have to work out how you're gonna fight, meaning what combat style you'll be using. You have two options, and yes there are more, don't worry about that. But since you're just starting out it's good to start with a basic idea, and work outward from there." He nods in understanding, and it does make sense in a way. Focusing on a specific attribute of combat and slowly expanding into different areas using similar techniques certainly sounds like a good idea.

"Option one: Block strikes with a shield or wear good armor, attacking after letting the enemy wear themselves out, or if you think it's safe enough overwhelming them in a show of force. Basically taking the wall approach, ya know.

Or option two: Be used to fighting at speed, the longer reach doesn't mean a thing if you're dodging and countering all over the damn place. And it helps against Grimm too, they aren't exactly the most elegant of enemies. So being able to duck and get in close let's you finish them off quicker.

I'm going to train you how to fight using one of these two methods, so think it over for a bit. The choice is entirely up to you."

"Speed." he answers in an instant. It isn't even a choice. If he has to choose between defending behind a shield, and taking the fight to the enemy, he'll take speed and acrobatics every single time.

He's always been energetic, preferring to run rather than walk just to feel the wind whipping through his hair and rushing against his skin. Always fidgeting with something or tapping against a stray surface because he just can't sit _still_.

His sisters had always complained about it when he was younger, and they'd be charged to look after him while their parents went out. Eventually he'd get bored just doing nothing while the rest of them got to enjoy themselves. And wander over to ask if he could join in with whatever they're doing, "Why can't you just sit _still_?" Jean had asked once when he was ten, a sneer marring her face. As if he was only an annoyance instead of her little brother.

He still thinks about that sometimes. It twists painfully in his chest and burns his throat because he can't help it. He doesn't know how to be anything else. The fact that there is literally a fighting style focused around being constantly on the move is more than he's ever dreamed of.

Janet looks surprised for a moment, before she schools her features into a smirk, "Okay then. First lesson: Try and stop me."

She rushes forward in a blur of yellow and black, reducing the distance between them by half before he has time to even blink. There's a glint of light against steel as her sword descends towards his neck. He doesn't think, stumbling backwards in surprise as he swings Crocea Mors up hard in an attempt to deflect the strike. A clang rings through the air as the two swords collide and Janet's sword goes up and over his head missing his hair by a scant few inches. His hand is tingling from the force of her strike, and that sends a frisson of fear racing up his spine. He can't block another one of her strikes, and judging from the glint in her eye she knows it too.

Janet rolls with the strike snapping her arm like a whip and slashing back down towards his chest. He acts on fear, instinctively raising Crocea Mors up to block. _Don't!_ Her sword collides with his and his hand bends back abruptly, for a moment he pushes back to try and decompress his hand until Janet pushes once more, and his wrist snaps under the strain. Crocea Mors tumbles from his now useless fingers and he just stares uncomprehendingly at his aching hand, before falling to his knees clutching it tight against his chest, swearing up a storm.

To her credit it takes barely a second for Janet to realize what's happened, "Shit hold on, I'll go get Jane!" she says rushing back into the house while he focuses on keeping his hand still. The last thing he wants is to bend it a little bit too far and break something else. Permanent damage to his sword hand would be very _very_ bad. It's also the fact that a broken wrist is painful enough on it's own, but mostly the first one.

 _I told you not to block!_ the sword says scoldingly, as if that reminder will magically make his hand all better. ' _Thank you so much for your input Crocea. Kindly shove it up your ass or hilt or- just shut up.'_

Mentally he knows it's fine and that he just has to wait for Jane to heal it, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. Although judging from the "WHAT?" echoing from her bedroom window it won't be much longer.

' _Still'_ he thinks gritting his teeth against the pain ' _It hurts like a bitch.'_

 _Then maybe you shouldn't have blocked!_ Crocea Mors replies and he has the sudden urge to kick it across the lawn. It'd be petty, and it's not exactly like the sword itself can even feel pain, but it would be oh so satisfying.

Something pokes his injured hand and he has to fight down a yelp. _No bad Jaune, very bad._ It says before wind chimes ring again and he can't completely stifle the laugh rising in his throat. _'You are such a dick.'_

Their conversation is interrupted by the back door slamming against the side of the house as Jane hops down the stairs and starts sprinting over to him. It's obvious she's in a hurry, from the way her clothes are sitting at odd angles against her shoulders. To how her hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, with a few stray blonde strands poking out at the end.

Which is fair enough he supposes, it isn't exactly like it matters. She's his twin sister for one, and makeup doesn't exactly aid in the whole "prevent permanent damage to limbs" thing.

Jane slides to a stop next to him, her hand coming up and slapping the back of his head before grabbing his hand and pulling it into hers. Leaving him to yelp through clenched teeth at the sudden shift in his wrist bone. " _That_ is for getting hurt. It's 5:30 in the morning, can you please keep all your bones in their proper places until _after_ breakfast?" He opens his mouth to protest because it's not like he chose to get hurt. And if he can get up this early why can't she?

But before he can her hands are enveloped in a warm white light, and Jaune has to hold back a grimace as the breaks in his wrist start knitting themselves back together.

That's the trouble with her semblance, it doesn't _hurt,_ at least not really. But the feeling of bones shifting into place under his skin isn't exactly the most comfortable sensation. It's almost like an itch, but one he can't scratch. (And even if he could it wouldn't exactly be a good idea to do so.)Q

A minute later Jane stops and the light fades from her hand, with a huff she lets go of his and he clenches his hand to see if she missed anything. She hasn't and he looks up to thank her, only to stop at the slightly smug grin on her face. "Who's the best?" She asks with a smirk, and he can't help but laugh, "All of my hate Jane, _all of it_."

She just laughs, cuffing him on the back of the head before pulling him into a hug, "Aww! I love you too stupid." Before settling into a deadpan expression, "You're cooking me breakfast today." ' _Oh goddammit._ ' He doesn't really have a choice either. Or to be more specific he _does_ , but dealing with her ranting about it for the next few days isn't exactly the preferable option. Better to just suck it up and cook.

"What do you want for breakfast?" He groans, honestly there should be rules against this shit. Then he remembers that she's the only one in the family who can heal him effectively, and no-no there really shouldn't be.

 _Breakfast for non-permanent injury, not bad really._ The sword says and isn't it supposed to be on his side?

"Homemade blueberry pancakes." Jane says grinning in a way that says "I am completely aware of how much a pain-in-the-ass those are to make. I also don't care."

"You realize I'm gonna have to cook for all of you right? The twins aren't exactly going to be happy if you're the only one eating pancakes." He says with a groan.

She pulls him into another hug chirping in his ear, "Yup! So you'll have to cut your training at like 6:00 if you wanna have enough time."

"Jerk."

Jane knocks him on the head once more before yanking him to his feet. "You know it." She plants a hand against his back and shoves him towards the house, "Now you go get Janet." She says slumping down in the grass with her hands behind her head, "I'm gonna wait here. Not gonna be able to sleep after all that, so I'll take the free entertainment of watching you lose."

At his answering glare she points at the house slowly saying, "House that way." She walks two fingers along her palm, "Goooo."

"Okaaaay." he says grabbing Crocea off the ground and clipping it to his waist, before turning on his heel and stomping over to the back door. "Fuuuuuuck yoooooou." he calls back as he pulls the door open and lets it swing closed behind him; wisely choosing to ignore Jane's reaction, because getting annihilated by her doesn't sound fun at all.

Rounding the corner into the kitchen he finds Janet sitting at the table, with her sword laid out in its sheath in front of her. Her back straightens at the sound of his sneakers lightly clacking against the hardwood. She looks up at him with a smirk, "All good?"

Her tone is light and conversational, like she's asking about the weather instead of if his hand is permanently damaged. One hand is bent downwards at an angle, the other wrapped around her weapon, and it almost looks like she's been boredly tapping out a beat against the tabletop while she waited.

It's a convincing facade, and he might've bought it if it weren't for the way she's holding her sword in a death-grip, her knuckles standing out stark white against the black sheath.

It's times like these when he's all the more reminded of how he fits into the family, ' _Why can't Bri deal with this?'_ It's selfish. Janet is feeling awful and all he can wonder is if he can shunt it off on someone else, but it's true. Literally anyone else could do a better job at comforting her than him, they aren't exactly close.

There's _love_ sure but it's a love of familiarity, a slow comfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach and an ache in the back of his throat. Born more of _longing_ than anything, a desire that they were close, but they aren't. He doesn't know how to help, hell they've lived under the same roof for thirteen years and he barely knows what she likes.

Crocea nudges at him lightly, _At least_ _say something._

He wings it because really what's the worst that could happen? Reaching out with his right hand and clacking his knuckles against her forehead, "Of course it's all good you dumbass." He says with a smile, his stomach buzzing nervously ' _please work_ '.

Janet looks surprised her mouth opening and closing like a fish, before she laughs leaning back in her seat and resting her feet on the table as the tension melts out of her shoulders. "Good...good." She gestures towards Crocea at his hip, "Feel up for another round? Or are you scared to get your ass kicked again?" There's a hopeful glint in her eye that he can't ignore.

"Sure let's go. Jane'll wine at me if we don't." He smiles innocently at her scolding glare, "What? You know it's true

Janet sighs before sliding her feet off the table and walking past him to the back door, knocking it open with her shoulder and calling back, "Nothing, come on."

He shrugs ' _Whatever.'_ turning and walking through the back door. _Duck._ Crocea Mors chimes boredly, and he does, setting into a crouch letting Jane fly over his head and land in a heap in the hallway.

"Ow." She whines, rubbing at her leg with a disappointed frown.

Jaune can't think of anything to say to that, and after a moment of silence decides to just not ask, "Okay, well...good luck with that." he says before hopping down the stairs. And walks to his starting position across from Janet. Carefully ignoring the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Crocea saying _Run away, far far away._

"Same as last time, okay?" Janet calls and he steels himself in preparation turning his attention to the sword at his side, ' _Do you think she meant that literally? Or am I gonna try and block my neck and get stabbed in the leg?'_

 _I dunno._

' _...Thanks for the help.'_

Two days into his training and this is already the part Jaune hates most by far: the uncertainty. The complete lack of any idea what his sisters are going to do during the training. He can't exactly plan around their patterns when they seem to be doing shit just to see if it works. Hell he barely knows anything about fighting but he's pretty sure that a counter to a deflection shouldn't be to just swing back harder.

 _You have to admit, it worked._ Crocea says, and oh great, it's as snarky as him. _I can hear that_. And moving on, ' _Can you at least try to give me a warning, before she breaks my hand this time?'_

 _I can try. Can't promise much though._ And this is just _brilliant_.

"Ready?" Janet yells

"Ready to lose?" Jane calls from her place on the back steps.

"Yeah." He doesn't know which question he's answering. If he's being even slightly realistic it's probably both.

"Okay. 3, 2, 1 go!"

~~~~~~~~~~30 minutes later~~~~~~~~~

 _That could have gone better_

 _'Thank you Crocea. Shut up Crocea.'_ He drones for the third time

He's stood in front of the kitchen stove pouring pancake batter into a pan, with the dirty one set aside. Absentmindedly flicking blueberries into the greyish pool as he goes, and trying not to visibly wince at the stiffness in his left knee. ' _Well my prediction was right. Granted it was with a foot and not a sword, but I was right.'_

 _Good job, gold star for you._ It pats his head and he automatically moves to slap it away. Only to have his hand hit nothing because obviously there isn't anything there. "Oh goddammit!"

"Uh Jaune...what are you doing?" He turns his neck to the right to see his sisters sat at the table. With Jane in particular staring at him as if he's gone completely mad. His face burns hot with embarrassment and he turns back to the pans offering a muttered explanation of "Thought I saw a fly."

"Okayyyy." Jane says before turning back to her conversation, "Sorry about that, what did you say Jean?"

"I said that we need to work on your-" he tunes her out, turning back to the stove his cheeks still bright red.

 _Smooth._

 _'Whatever.'_ He huffs, the oven beeps and he pulls it open. Grabbing the pan of batter and setting it on the top rack, ' _It said 10 minutes right?'_

 _Yep._

He sets it to ten and limps over to the chair next to Jane. Flopping down hard in the seat, and rolling up the leg of his flour stained jeans to look at the back of his knee. He's greeted to the sight of a dark throbbing bruise, with yellow creeping in at the edges mixing it into an entirely unpleasant shade of purple.

"You didn't tell me about that one." Jane says, her hand glows white and she presses it to his bruise, extending his leg with the other.

Jane moves her hand up his leg, the bruise gradually getting lighter as she goes. When she gets to the crook behind his kneecap she stops, her brow momentarily crunching in confusion. She turns to stare at his face, the slightly worried look in her eye makes him nervous.

But before he can ask Jane just exactly what she's doing she presses against it with her middle and index fingers.

His hand slams hard and loud against the tabletop, while he lets out a long string of muffled curses into the sleeve of his hoodie. Jane looks at his knee with suddenly wide eyes, as if he's just confirmed something. "What the hell! Why didn't you say anything?"

Brianna turns towards them at that outburst, "What is it?" She says gesturing up and down Jaune's body with her hand, "He looks fine." At Jane's stare of "are you blind?" she clarifies, "You know what I mean, yes it obviously hurts."

' _Little bit of an understatement there.'_ He thinks, not trusting his voice enough to say it.

"But he had two cracked ribs yesterday, and that was fine. So what could be so bad about this?"

"The difference." Jane says with a drawn out hiss, "Is in what exactly was damaged. Injured ribs hurt like hell, but if someone can manage to get back on their feet they can conceivably keep moving." She gestures loosely towards his leg with a nervous look on her face, "This though... not so much."

 _You stand corrected_

That gets their attentions and suddenly all of his sisters are looking at him, and wow that is still so uncomfortable.

"Get to the point already." He says, wanting to just get their eyes off of him, the explanation is taking way too long and the staring is already starting to make his skin itch.

Jane takes the time to glare him into submission before speaking, "The bones in your knee are _cracked_ , like where your femur and patella connect, that joint? Yeah there's a big crack in the bones around that entire area."

"Oh." He says, that's very...not good.

And judging from Janet's wide-eyed stare at his leg he'll have to talk to her again. ' _Dammit'_

' _When were you going to tell me about this?'_ He asks Crocea, feeling more than a little bit betrayed by its silence.

 _Figured she'd heal you. Been suppressing it._

 _'Then why am I still limping?'_ He was able to move with two cracked ribs yesterday, so why the hell can he barely walk?

 _Be happy you can walk at all._

The conversation ends on that...disconcerting remark. He snaps back to reality with a curse when Jane's probing fingers push against the joint once more. "Watch it!" He says, trying to avoid kicking at her out of reflex, ' _That probably would be bad for my leg.'_

 _Or your health in general._

Jane's hand glows white and she holds it to his leg for what seems like ages, while he tries not to fidget because they're still just _staring_ , "At the risk of sounding like a jerk, don't you guys have anything better to do than gawk?" He takes their complete lack of reaction as a "no."

A minute later Jane lowers her hand and slumps lazily back into her seat, a light sheen of sweat now covering her forehead. "Hey Jean, get me a bottle of water will ya." She says between breaths. The look Jean gives him could freeze hell over, and she nudges her head towards him in a not so subtle way of saying "You do it."

"I got it." Jaune says, before Jane claps a hand down hard on his knee, :"Fair warning, you aren't fully healed yet. I did the best I could but that's as good as it's gonna get for today."

' _I really hope you don't mind what I'm about to do.'_ He says to the sword before slowly easing himself out of his chair. Using Crocea Mors as a cane, he hobbles over to the fridge. Yanking it open and throwing a water bottle in the vague direction of the table. "Somebody catch that." And judging from the fact that Jean hasn't crippled his other leg in the next moment somebody must have.

 _You're leg is basically broken. I'll make an exception._

' _Thanks.'_ he replies dryly, closing the fridge and limping his way over to the stove, slipping on an oven mit and pulling the hot pan out before plopping it on the counter. If it's any consolation the pancakes look delicious. The next five minutes consist of him placing the pan and a knife on the table, and an embarrassing display of him hopping on one leg while he makes coffee.

He sets the still steaming cup at the head of the table turning towards Janet and saying, "You'll have to wake him up today, I'm going back to bed. And I hope this goes without saying, but we're _fine_. No grudges or whatever. We're good." He scratches at the back of his head embarrassed, "I want to be a huntsman, this kinda comes with the territory."

With that he hobbles his way out of the kitchen not wanting to stick around for her reaction, and slowly flails his way upstairs to his room. Closing the door behind him before flopping down on his bed with a pained groan, already his eyelids are drooping in exhaustion. He forces himself to stay awake for a little longer though, because something's bothering him and he'd rather get it cleared up sooner than later.

' _Hey Crocea.'_

 _Yeah_

' _We're...partners right?'_

There's a rush of warmth from his head to his toes that has him nodding off almost immediately, but before sleep claims him he hears it's reply clearly, _I'd like that._

' _Good.'_

 **Chapter 3 done. Sorry about the late update, I wrote this chapter three times before finally deciding on this version so...yeah. For anyone wondering, no I'm not having Jaune get the shit kicked out of him for laughs. He is massively weaker than his siblings yes, but come on he was kicked across a clearing into a tree last chapter, I think the gap in skill has been established,. he will get hurt in this story, but I'm trying to make it at least seem reasonable instead of downright sadism. So thank you for reading and review and all that stuff, bye!**

 **Re-edited: November 28th 2015**


	4. Chapter 4

"Speaking"

' _Thoughts'_

 _Something Else_

 _Jaune_

He wakes some hours later to the sound of somebody pounding at his door, "Jaune? Get out here!" ah scratch that, _Brianna_ pounding at his door. He swings his legs over the side of his bed with a groan ' _Why? Just why?'_

With one hand on his right leg he goes to stand, only for his left knee to flare with pain and give-out beneath him. His face thudding against the carpet a moment later.

The pounding at his door stops abruptly, "...You forgot about your leg didn't you?" Brianna asks and he can almost see her face-palming at his stupidity. "Whatever, just meet me out back."

It takes him a moment to roll onto his back, spitting carpet fibers as he goes, "Yeah I got it, just give me five minutes." His leg twinges painfully and he fails to fully hold back a groan, only managing to muffle it down to a sharp hiss. "Make that fifteen minutes."

There's a sigh from the other side of the door, "Whatever." Brianna says, and the carpet thumps quietly beneath her feet as she goes back downstairs. When the noises have faded Jaune leans forward grabbing at his leg with a curse, "Damn knee." He grabs it tight and the pain flares hot and new causing his grip to slip, sending him falling back down to bash the back of his head against the floor. "Damn it."

 _Is this what Blondie meant about "Concussing yourself again?"_ Oh motherfuck.

' _You realize you can't move without me right?'_ Let the record be known: Jaune: 1 Crocea: 0.

 _You realize that right now the reverse applies for you too right?_ It laughs and he kind of wants to punch it, because it's _proud_ of that little comeback. ' _Moving on.'_ He replies, shifting so his back is to his bed ' _Still cool with being a crutch right?'_

The sword does the mental equivalent of an eye-roll (and wow that feels weird, sort of like he's doing it, while still seeing straight ahead.) before replying ' _Yes Jaune it's fine.'_

' _Good.'_ He says, before placing his hands flat against the floor by his sides and pushing himself partially off the floor. Slowly easing himself towards the bed with his good leg and keeping his injured one still. When his back hits the frame he lowers himself back down to the floor wiping sweat off his brow, ' _Note: work on upper body strength, that shouldn't be hard.'_

 _Noted._ the sword replies dryly, _Just how are you going to get up here?_

Jaune lifts his arms behind him grabbing tight to the bed's wooden frame. ' _Easy.'_ He replies crossing his injured leg over his normal one. ' _Just pull myself up.'_ He pulls against the bed while pushing off from the floor with his good leg slowly but surely getting back on his bed. When his back meets the bunched up comforter on top he lets go falling back onto the bed. ' _See?'_

 _Convoluted, but it worked. I give it a B-minus_

' _Well fuck you too.'_ He replies, reaching behind his back and grabbing the sword with his left hand. Pitching himself forward once, twice, three times and with a grunt swinging himself up on one leg. With Crocea Mors leaned against the floor as a cane.

He staggers over to his bedroom door yanking it open with his right hand and roughly shoving it closed behind him. Limping over to the staircase he can't help but sigh, ' _Oh screw it.'_ He reaches over to the old wood banister, and with a grunt he hoists himself atop it sitting side-saddle towards the wall opposite him. The sword lets out a combination of a sigh and a long string of curses, _I'm both ashamed and slightly proud. What the hell are you doing to me?_

He gives the mental equivalent of sticking his tongue out in response, before pushing off with his left hand and sliding towards the bottom. ' _My knee is broken, besides fuck stairs.'_ The discussion is abruptly cut off when his right leg collides with the banister at the bottom a moment later. He hops down on his right leg bouncing around on one foot and painfully jarring his knee until he sets Crocea Mors beneath him.

Jaune hurriedly hobbles his way through the kitchen, the sheath clacking loudly against the hardwood floor, he's thankful that everyone else seems to be off doing their own things elsewhere. The awkward stumbling shuffle isn't exactly something he wants an audience for. He makes his way to the backdoor with little effort, pressing his right arm up against the wall, while he awkwardly fumbles for the door handle with his leftover fingers. ' _I hate this so much.'_

 _I can't even feel it, and I hate it too._

' _Thanks for the support , I guess.'_ One more stretch and he finally manages to grab the handle turning it down and pushing it open with his right shoulder. He grabs the handle tightly to avoid throwing himself down the steps and into the grass, the unexpected momentum forces him down the stairs anyway but hey, he tried.

 _You okay? That looked like it hurt._ He doesn't notice Brianna plodding through the grass towards him, instead putting focus into saying "Thnk youph Croea." and then spitting the grass out of his mouth.

"What was that Jaune?" Brianna asks crouching down to his level and he just groans when she starts pulling grass out of his hair, "Hi Bri, what did you want?" "Look over there." She replies, pointing back over her shoulder with her thumb. "I think it's pretty self-explanatory."

He pushes himself up onto his back in the grass. He spots the white table immediately with a single chair positioned facing the forest and honestly how the hell had he missed it before? _You were busy finding out what dirt tastes like._ ' _Keep talking and I will turn you into scrap-metal I swear to god.'_

Brianna stands shuffling over next to him, before crouching back down and throwing his right arm over her shoulder, "C'mon we don't have all day." She pauses pulling her scroll out of her jeans pocket, the time reads 12:30.

"...Okay we _do,_ but I have a mission tomorrow, so I would like to relax." With that she stands hauling him to his feet, and slowly they make their way over to the table.

He spots it when they're a little more than halfway there, and he should probably be surprised, but he's almost been expecting it. Brianna uses guns, it should be normal.

And on some level that he doesn't like to think about it _is_.

But that doesn't stop a chill from creeping it's way down his spine at the sight of the hunting rifle laid flat across the tabletop.

They're less than a quarter of the way now, and is something _burning_? The smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air and he can taste something cool and metallic on his tongue.

' _You can smell that too right?'_ He asks before realizing that no a _sword_ can probably not _smell_ anything. Until a cough rings in his head making his head ache at how _loud_ it is. _No I smell it too._ Crocea replies nasally and Jaune tries to laugh, until he gags on the air.

But Brianna just keeps dragging him forward, showing no reaction to the smell whatsoever, and Jaune can't stop himself from asking, "Can you not _smell_ that?" It's so strong his head is swimming, so why isn't she saying something?

She gives him a sideways glance just as they finally reach the table. Jaune collapses into the chair immediately laying his head against the tabletop and trying not to vomit. "What are you talking about? I don't smell anything." She asks, looking at him as if he's gone insane.

"Never mind." He replies absently brushing the gun with his right hand, feeling the barrels cool metal against his skin. The wood's smooth and well polished, and if it wasn't for the long winding scratch in the stock he'd swear it's brand-new.

' _Must be from her personal armory.'_

"Ok then. I'm sure you can figure out what we're training with." She says, twisting a loop on her belt as she talks.

"Guns obviously." Jaune replies before taking a deep breath to try and get rid of the taste in his mouth, it doesn't work.

 _Dammit._

Brianna makes her way to the opposite side of the table lifting the rifle and placing it in his still unsteady hands. "Do me a favor? Don't jam it or something stupid like that."

He glares at her because she seems to have forgotten something, "Yeah...you do realize I've never shot a gun."

Brianna gives him a look that's somehow pitying and horrified at the same time, "You're kidding right? You have to be, hell I remember teaching you how to use a handgun when you were nine." She says it so casually, like she's absolutely certain about this.

Jaune stills, his grip on the rifle tightening minutely as he tries to think of a way to answer her question that doesn't involve swearing in her face. He remembers too, and if anything he's more surprised that Brianna even got the age right. She _had_ taught somebody how to shoot, only it wasn't him.

"That was _Jane_. When I asked you to teach me you said you'd teach me tomorrow." He says, and to be fair a week later _that_ had happened and she'd spent the next few months too busy helping pick up the pieces to teach him. Then again Jane keeps a revolver on her nightstand so she must have got more training from _somewhere._

"Oh."

To her credit she recovers from her mistake in record time. Clapping him firmly on the shoulder and tilting his head up at hers."Well you're gonna learn now, ok?" She says, grinning bright and wide as if that makes it all okay. He just smiles back, it's an entirely fake gesture, but responding honestly would just be more trouble than it's worth.

On the plus side the smell is gone, although he can still taste metal which kind of sucks. ' _Any idea what that was.'_

 _We're having a talk about all of this later. Also, we're buying mouthwash._ The sword says, and he doesn't know whether to laugh or cower at the confused anger bubbling in the steel..

"Ok. Let's get started." Brianna says, twirling her wrist towards the rifle as she starts to pace. Her choice of weapons is almost painfully ironic since she's almost as fidgety as him.

"From the top: That gun is a modified and I mean _modified_ bolt-action Winchester hunting rifle. I'll try and spare you the incredibly in-depth lecture, because honestly I use guns for a living and they confuse the hell out of me sometimes. But anyway I've fitted it with a scope that magnifies at 4, 8, and 12 times normal vision, with an optional night vision setting," At his questioning look she elaborates. "It's a rifle and I'm not a faunus, do the math." He does and comes up with an image of somebody lying in a pool of their own blood, then promptly kicks that morbid image out of his head. Partly because it's probably closer to reality than he'd like to admit.

"I've also gutted the original barrel and replaced it with a much higher quality steel copy that's about 1.5 inches longer, because believe me with the type of ammo I use with this thing it was necessary. Also the fact that when I used the same ammo with a bigger rifle it kindaaaaa blew apart in my hands."

At his wide eyed stare of "Are you fucking kidding me?" she lifts her left hand palm open towards him, revealing the long jagged scar running from the tip of her index finger to the base of her thumb. _I change my mind, she's the crazy one._ Crocea Mors says and he really _really_ can't argue with that.

She coughs into her palm, her cheeks flushed bright red in embarrassment as she paces, "Moving on, it fires your standard .308 caliber rounds, which hey it doesn't work on people but it'll kill Grimm just fine. It _also_ fires a specially modified .308 round that has Energy type Dust infused into the bullet making it travel much farther and faster, while virtually eliminating any and all drop-off."

"And you don't only use the dust rounds _because_?"

Brianna stops pacing and turns to face him holding up three fingers before continuing on, "There are three reasons why I don't always use the dust rounds. One: They are loud as _fuck._ I mean Aura basically makes tinnitus impossible, which I'll admit is pretty nice, but that isn't exactly a huge advantage when everything in a quarter-mile radius knows where you are." She says looking towards him to make sure he's following along.

"Two: The recoil is an absolute bitch. It can't break bones or anything since I have an unlocked Aura, but having my shoulder be one giant bruise isn't really good for my aim either." At that Brianna rolls up the left sleeve of her t-shirt revealing a large purple welt underneath. "See what I mean?" she says before rolling her sleeve back into place.

"Three: And this one is kind of a two-fold issue, the cost. The ammo itself is expensive because you either have to special-order it from the Schnee Dust Company, or find a specialist who can make it without blowing up their store. Also because as I explained a minute ago, you have to fit your weapons to be able to handle it. And the required metals are expensive too.." But you have to buy it, because if the forces the ammo exerts are too strong you end up with a bunch of scrap metal instead of a gun. Hell there are some guns that will shatter no matter _what_ you do to them."

It takes him a moment to process but he understands for the most part, it doesn't take any knowledge about guns to follow simple physics. He can't help but nervously glance down at the rifle in his hands, "Just for the record, you loaded this with normal ammo right?" He asks because if it can bruise her shoulder in one shot it would probably shatter his.

Brianna almost looks insulted at the mere suggestion that she might forget something like that, "Yes Jaune I did load it with the right ammo." She grabs the underside of the barrel moving it down until it's standing flat on the table, then slowly lifting it until the stock is fit snugly against his shoulder, poking and prodding at his arms until he's shifted into a position she deems acceptable.

With a hum of satisfaction she points out towards the forest before walking to his side of the table, "Now moving away from unfounded paranoia. Look that way through the scope, just tell me when you spot something."

Jaune does as she says, tilting his head until he can see through the scope comfortably, shutting his left eye almost immediately after because the double vision is unbearably awful.

He scans the treeline searching for the slightest glint against the afternoon sun, he glances higher up going from left to right as he works ' _No, no, nothing, nothing come on where is it?' Stop._ Crocea Mors says and he goes stone still.

' _Did you see something?'_

 _Maybe. Go back to the second tree on the left._

He turns back going over the branches once more, checking to see if he's missed something. _Stop. One branch up on the right, see it?_

He does as it says, and staring up at the tree he still doesn't see anything, until a cloud passes overhead and the light disappears allowing him to catch a hint of grey in the mish-mash of greens and reds and browns.

 _"_ Got one." He says aloud, Brianna's only response is a small hum in the back of her throat, "Not bad." She says absently tapping a beat against the table: one, two, three, one, two, three.

"Just fire when ready, we're too close for drop off to be a factor, and anyone you could hit is inside."

"Ok." He says slowly squeezing the trigger with his pointer finger, holding his breath so as to not shift at the last second and miss. He barely has it halfway compressed when it fires with a sharp _crack!_ The stock slams back hard against his shoulder, and he almost drops the gun out of surprise. "Shit!"

Less than a second later something shatters up in the treeline, the debris falling onto the forest below in a hail of small grey chunks. Recognition hits a moment later when he sees a particularly large chunk shaped like an L. ' _That just destroyed a cinder block. Holy shit.'_

 _Nice shot. I mean I helped, but nice shot. Also for fuck's sake I still taste metal._

The adrenaline rush gives out a moment later, and the rifle barrel drops to the table with a thump when he has to push down against the top with one hand to keep from slumping in his seat.

There's a sharp ache in his shoulder where the stock made contact and he's almost certain he'll find a bruise there tomorrow. His injured leg is throbbing painfully too, probably because Brianna in her infinite wisdom neglected to mention that you feel the recoil throughout your entire body.

But there's also a grin slowly spreading it's way across her face, and even now he can't completely stifle the warm feeling in his chest at the sight.

 _And the one person I can talk to is a sap. Great._ He quietly files that little nugget of information away for their conversation later. ' _Love you too.'_

"Good job! You got one." Brianna says surprising him out of their conversation, "But there are still more targets, so chop chop."

At that she pulls something out of her pocket, "And here's the rest of the bullets." She says opening her palm to reveal four pointed rounds, at his offended stare she blushes, "Hey I needed to teach you how to reload anyways, besides I wanted to make sure you didn't have a bunch of shots in case you got...frustrated."

If anything that offends him even more, "Just out of curiosity." He snarks, reaching out and grabbing the bullets from her hand, loading them into the magazine as he speaks, "How did you make the jump from: Doesn't handle failure well, to: Is a complete psychopath?"

Brianna's response comes as painted nails at his chin, with a twist of her wrist she tilts his gaze away from the rifle and up towards her. "How do you know how to do that?" She asks, eyes wide and confusion showing plain on her face.

Realization hits, and all Jaune can do is stare down at the freshly loaded rifle in his hands, he licks his lips, his mouth dry and tasting like metal. "I-I don't know," he says quietly his brow scrunching up in confusion. It hadn't been a guess he'd just...done it, his hands moving like it was an old practiced habit, fingers dancing across the metal in smooth unfaltering movements.

The knowledge is still there too, waiting in the back of his head like a silent intruder, and he knows that he could do it again if Brianna asked. Which is disturbing in so many ways.

He and Crocea Mors are partners now, only three days in and that's a decision that he wouldn't mind being permanent. But this isn't Crocea Mors and he wants it out, because it _shouldn't_ be there.

This is the first time he's used a rifle in his life but he can look at the Winchester in his arms and know everything about it. .308 caliber, titanium barrel, custom action to cycle the rounds at half the original time, a hair-trigger that fires at .3 inches of compression, magazine size of five rounds.

He should know _none_ of this, but he does.

 _Calm down, You're fine._ Crocea says softly nudging at his cheek. It's only then that he notices the tremor in his hands, and his breath coming out in short desperate pants. ' _What's going on?'_ He asks unable to keep the slightly hysterical tone out of his thoughts.

There's a phantom hand against his cheek, it's cool to the touch, but there's comfort in its fingertips and Jaune can't stop himself from leaning into it. _Calm down. I promise you're fine, just please calm down, I'll explain later._ Crocea says, and it takes a while (no doubt Brianna's noticed by now) but his hands stop shaking.

His breath is still coming too fast, barely spending a second in his lungs before being pushed out and replaced, but it's an improvement. ' _...Thank you Crocea.'_ He replies.

It (she? the voice definitely sounds like a girl?) nudges at his cheek once more before retreating back into his head. _You're welcome._

Brianna breaks his thoughts with a three-fingered tap against his cheek, "Hey, you okay?" She asks.

From her position crouched next to him he can clearly make out the concerned look in her eye, "Had a bit of a freakout there." She says laying a hand on his shoulder, "It's fine. Happened to me my first-time too."

Her face flushes in embarrassment and she focuses on a point over his shoulder, "Didn't touch a gun for a month actually."

It's the little things like that that make Jaune feel closer with and at the same time even more distant from his family. The little clues and casual admissions that tell of so many things, things that even after living with them for 13 years he doesn't know. It's a strange feeling, both a warmth in his chest and a slightly bitter taste in the back of his throat, but he's kind of used to it by now.

His enthusiasm fades at that thought, and he sets the rifle down with semi-steady hands. Reaching down and grabbing Crocea Mors off of his belt, shifting it over to his left hand, and heaving himself out of the chair with a grunt, the ground rushes up to meet him almost immediately. At least until he jams Crocea Mors into the ground, gritting his teeth and pushing hard against the hilt until he's fully righted himself.

Brianna's at his side in an instant, her left arm hooked under his right while she slowly starts edging him towards the back-door, "Ya know you can just ask for help," She says teasingly, and there's a small part of him that wants to shove her off, to insist that he can walk fine on his own thank you very much.

But he doesn't, relenting to her help with a sigh, and a minute later they're back inside the house, with him sat at the kitchen table holding an ice-pack to his knee. Apparently haphazardly limping around with a broken knee isn't good for said knee, who knew?

Brianna's leaned up against the counter, a handgun clutched between her fingers, (god knows where she got it from, probably the cabinets or some shit)periodically clearing it and releasing the mag to count the bullets.

Before sliding it back in with a _click_ and starting the whole process all over again.

It's obvious she wants to ask him something, but doesn't know how to approach the subject, and if he's being honest he doesn't feel like putting the effort into make it easier for her.

Jaune's more focused on looking anywhere in the room than at the handgun, because he's almost certain that if he even catches a glance that he'll be hit by another flood of information. Unfortunately for him the table-top is semi reflective under the kitchen light, and he catches sight of it when Brianna pulls the slide back for what feels like the millionth time. **.45 Acp, 9 round maga-** he slumps his head against the table to silence it, ' _Dammit!'_

 _Did you never think to maybe just close your eyes?_ Crocea snarks.

' _I have something in my head shouting at me about bullet calibers. Cut me some slack'_

 _One: I can hear it too. Two: Just for the record, this weirdness is all your doing._

He's out of his chair and limping his way up the stairs when he hears that, only pausing to shout "We'll talk later!" back over his shoulder before continuing his ascent. He makes it to his room opening the door and quickly closing it behind him turning the lock, just in case. Flopping on to his bed he lifts Crocea Mors until they're at "eye level."

' _Start explaining. You know something. I don't, and it's driving me crazy."_

 _...One condition. You ask a question, I ask a question, keep going until you're satisfied. Deal?_

He jumps at the offer, ' _Deal.'_

The sword pushes on his chest forcing him down into his pillows, _Then make yourself comfortable, this could take a while._

' _First question then: How many owners have you actually had? The stories never really gave a number, just some vague mentions of "Been in our family for generations. Passed down from parent to child."'_

Wind chimes ring quiet and somber in his head, _Going for the tough questions already huh?_ Jaune can feel his brow scrunch in confusion at that response, ' _Why is that a hard question, just a number isn't it?'_

 _This coming from the person who asked how many have died at my hand,_ The sword replies dryly. It interrupts his stuttered protests with a rap against his forehead, _But to answer your question, I've had fifteen_ _ **partners**_ _, sixteen counting you._ There's a nostalgic lilt in its reply, and Jaune doesn't really know what to say to that.

Thankfully Crocea speaks before he can make any fumbled attempts at condolences, _My turn then: Why are you so distant from your family?_

Jaune flinches at the question, it's the last thing he'd been expecting, harsh and needlessly blunt and he has to think for a long time about his answer. ' _It's...complicated.'_ He finally decides, and he can feel the sword's frustration at his intentionally vague response.

It _is_ complicated, just not in the way that Crocea is probably thinking, it's complexity ironically comes in how simple the reason is, there just isn't much to say. ' _I'm the only son in a house full of daughters. I'm also literally the last to start my training, everyone else except for Jane started and ended theirs long time ago, and even then Jane isn't far off.'_

There's a part of him that knows how he stands in his family, a little thing he's been hearing in the back of his head since he was old enough to understand the concept. Always whispering and poking at his weakest moments " _Weak, pathetic, why haven't they taught you yet_? _Don't lie, you hate it._ "

And if he's honest with himself, it's right. ' _If you want to be realistic you could say I'm the disappointment of the family.'_ There's stunned silence on Crocea's end and Jaune can't help but laugh at that, a slightly bitter thing that fades as quickly as it came, plunging the room back into silence.

He barrels on through the silence, he's not in the mood for false saccharine sympathy ' _My turn. How the hell are you a conscious...being I guess? The point is swords don't talk, hell I've never heard of a weapon in general that could talk.'_

 _That's...complicated_ Crocea replies, and there's a hesitance in it's words that to Jaune who's only heard it be boisterous and outspoken is incredibly unnerving. _Everyone has an aura right? Whether locked or unlocked everyone has one._

' _Considering that the only living thing that doesn't are Grimm I'm going to say yes.'_ Jaune replies, wondering exactly where this is going.

 _Then take a weapon, which are unusually good "conductors" of aura. And have a person use it for a number of years, constantly bathing it in aura every solitary second spent holding it._

 _Aura is usually described as the essence of the soul, isn't it? Well if a weapon absorbs enough of it over an extended period of time, can't it eventually reach a point where it creates something?_

The phantom touches always real and visceral, but never visible. Heat flickering at the edge of his consciousness, bright and gentle. But the pain suppression is the biggest hint, coming in rushes of heat or cold bubbling up in his chest before exploding outwards, was it really suppressing pain? Or would he have felt the scratch of his ribs knitting back together if he'd paid a little bit more attention?

Realization hits, and Jaune is floored. ' _It forms a soul of it's own doesn't it?'_

He can feel Crocea _smile_ in response, _Yes._

 **Yay chapter four done, and I actually managed to start moving the story faster than a fucking snail, YAY.**

 **Thank you for reading, review and all that stuff.**

 **VAGUE REFERENCES TO FUTURE CHAPTERS BELOW. (NO PLOT THOUGH.)**

 **(Also the story will answer a lot of questions in later chapters. It's called pacing, and I will be fucked if I don't build up Jaune's physical and emotional strength over time. He's not a badass, and if he kills a Grimm or something I want to emphasize his resourcefulness. Not an all-out beatdown.)**


	5. Chapter 5

"Speaking"

' _Thoughts'_

 _Something Else_

 **Weapon info.**

 _Jaune_

It's a long time before he speaks again, his brain still fried from the revelation. ' _Crocea Mors has a soul.'_ echoing through his mind like a broken record. It should have been obvious, and in hindsight he supposes it is. A sword lacks any and all bodily functions that would give it a consciousness, so what else could it be?

He's able to somewhat recover from his daze when Crocea pokes at his nose (and apparently his grip slipped at some point because it's laid out next to his head on the pillow) and that is suddenly so much more comforting and at the same time absolutely terrifying now that he knows.

 _Helloooo? Jaune? Are you in there?_ Crocea calls, the sound reverberating loudly against his skull, mixing in with the already present echo to form an entirely unpleasant clusterfuck of noise.

If that weren't enough, judging from the steady ache in his forehead it (She? He still isn't sure, but either he's insane _or_...) got tired of waiting.

' _What?'_ He asks, having to put physical effort into not snapping at it. That won't solve anything. It will _admittedly_ be very satisfying, but it still won't help.

 _Do you have anymore questions? Or are you going to crash again?_ It asks, and Jaune can feel his face burn bright with embarrassment, automatically replying with a rushed, ' _Shut up I'm thinking.'_

There's a long pause where he internally scrambles for a question, quickly seizing upon the first thing that comes to mind with an almost inappropriate amount of relief, ' _Why do you sound like a girl?'_

Then almost immediately realizing he probably should have asked anything _but_ that potential minefield of a question. ' _Uh-I-I, what I meant to say was...and I have no idea what I meant to say. Dammit.'_ Crocea laughs and he somehow gets even more embarrassed, rolling on to his right side away from it with a huff, ' _Just please answer the question before I have a stroke.'_ He pleads.

It laughs even harder at that comment and Jaune briefly contemplates leaping out his bedroom window. Sure he does have a broken knee, but it'd still be better than this. Besides it's only a few feet away, just prop the window and-.

 _Wait, I'll answer!_ The sword manages between peals of laughter, and apparently it heard that, _great_.

 _Ju-Just give me a minute._ A moment later it "breathes" deeply and finally calms down. _Sorry I just...wasn't expecting that._

 _'Are you done?'_ Jaune asks, arms crossed over his chest still staring at his window, _'Cause I can come back later.'_

 _Yes I'm done. And where are you gonna go? You can't walk without me._ Crocea replies, and Jaune kind of wishes he could slap it because he can _feel_ it smirking.

 _But to answer your question, I'm a girl._

Jaune's response is an oh so eloquent combination of _'I knew it!'_ mixed with the sound of his brain self-destructing.

Crocea continues on through his surprise, _If I had to give a "why" I'm guessing it's because my first partner was a girl, so when I formed I took after her._ _Her name was Joan, and she was the first Arc._

Jaune can't hold back a surprised chuckle at that, rolling back to stare at the sword to his left, absently brushing blonde streaks of hair out of his eyes as he speaks, _'The_ _first_ _Arc_ _was_ _a_ _girl_.' Until his brain finally reboots and he realizes that doesn't _exactly_ make sense, _'Wait what?'_

 _Is there something wrong with that?_ Crocea asks, and he can just imagine it's expression. With one eyebrow raised high and a hand tapping out a warning beat against her thigh.

Jaune scrambles to answer in a way that won't get him punched, ' _No! It's just...'_ He flounders about for the right words, ' _Doesn't a family line have to start with a guy? I mean, like biologically isn't that required?'_

 _Not necessarily._ Crocea answers, the threatening tone now gone as if it were never there. _Her family name wasn't Arc, it was a title, given to her for her actions in a war between the kingdoms you would call Vale and Vacuo._

 _And when political figures marry, the less influential partner usually changes their name._ He can feel her smirk as she continues, _And I think you can guess who changed their name._

Jaune however is still hung up on a previous point, _'Wait wait what? Can we go back to the war you just glossed over, how did that happen? Vale and Vacuo are connected by land, so who the hell decided a war was a good idea?'_

With a sigh she elaborates, _You have to understand, this was at least a century before a somewhat definitive peace was established between the two kingdoms. And much_ _ **much**_ _earlier than the Faunus wars and the political revolution that followed afterwards. Wars weren't exactly a rare occurrence, especially when the enemy was so easily accessible._

 _Plus at that time the government was more a system of...rulers that negotiated and fought over territory, while trying to make sure that Grimm did not encroach on the people._

 _To be fair they did actually govern over the populace, but it wasn't exactly a good system, corrupt politicians were a dime a dozen._

Jaune snorts at that, _'Ya don't say?'_

Crocea flicks him on the nose as punishment ignoring his protests as she continues, _The main problem being how there wasn't an ultimate governing body, no...mediator of some sorts, nobody who could step in and take action if a nation got uppity, or if a leader got overtly ambitious._

 _These days you at least have a high council, and while it may not be a perfect system. It's miles ahead of what it used to be._

Jaune can only stare blankly at the air in response, the stories had never mentioned _this._

Crocea gives a small chuckle, _Joan hated it at first, always corrected people on her name, said she didn't think it was right for her to be rewarded for killing people. Her political opponents called it a naive viewpoint, said that "war isn't a time for compassion" and maybe they were right. But I'll take compassion over blatant warmongering every damn time._

An image pops into his head then, of a tall young woman with fierce blue eyes and bright blonde hair that runs down past her shoulder-blades, clad in a familiar looking black and white armor, and Crocea Mors loosely clutched between her fingers.

 _'Why did they give her the name Arc? Out of every other option why did they choose Arc?'_ Jaune asks quietly. Closing his eyes tight to try and burn the picture into his memory.

There aren't many pictures of his ancestors, any photos his family _does_ have only go back as far as 10 generations, which means 5 generations of personal history, hell 5 generations of people are just _gone._

Crocea gives a sad smile at that question, _It comes from me actually. On the battlefield people would identify her by the symbol on my shield, using it as an indication for where to focus their troops._

 _We were a force to be reckoned with, and everyone knew it. Hell some people used to flat-out surrender when word broke out that she was there. To them it meant that there was simply no chance of winning. So they "named" her after the symbol, and she became Joan Arc._

Her voice breaks on the last few words, only a slight hitch before it's gone. If it weren't for the bittersweet tang washing over his tongue, he'd swear that he'd imagined it.

He decides to change the subject.

' _Soooo...are you gonna explain what's happening to me or not?'_ Hey, the blunt approach worked for her, so it's only fair.

Crocea sighs and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, _Hoped you'd forgotten about that._ (He takes the soothing chill at the back of his head as a thank you.) Before hesitantly continuing, _I do have an_ _ **idea**_ _about what's happening, but it's just a guess._

Jaune leaps at the opportunity, grabbing Crocea Mors off his pillow and bringing her in front of his face, ' _What is it then!?'_ He asks, shaking her frantically back and forth, _'Tell me!'_

 _If you don't drop me right now I'm not telling you._

Jaune drops the sword immediately, cautiously leaning back against his headboard, his hands very visibly at his sides, ' _Sorry. I'm uh, apparently more anxious than I thought.'_ He says with a nervous grin.

 _I take back what I said about the other blonde. You're the crazy one again._ Jaune's hand twitches by his side, and he has to force back the rather tempting idea of throwing her out the window.

That probably won't win him any favors. (Now that he thinks about it he'd probably just get a beating from Janet for throwing a legendary sword out a window.)

 _And I would cheer her on from the sidelines._ At his hurt look she mentally shrugs, _What? Don't throw me out windows, I have feelings too ya know._

 _But moving on from all your...crazy. I think what's happening to you is your semblance._

Jaune's brain stutters to a stop, he repeats Crocea's reply multiple times in his head, each time still unable to believe what he's just heard.

' _What? I must've heard you wrong, did you just say it's my semblance?'_

 _Yes_

 _' ...You know how semblances work right? It's kind of a rigid process:_

 _your aura,_

 _and hone your skills for a period of time, on if you're lucky, you unlock your semblance. And even then it's not a certain thing._

 _It's...not exactly something that can be done backwards. '_

Crocea huffs, _Well I don't care how it's supposed to work, it's still the only explanation that makes the slightest bit of sense. It explains your headache too, I didn't do that. (_ And she heard that too. Yay.)

Jaune throws his arms up in agitation, _'How does it make sense? I don't even have an aura.'_

 _But I do._ Crocea replies quietly.

His mind stumbles over this little tidbit, before deciding to just go with it. If every little revelation sends him reeling this could take a while.

 _Since I was,_ Jaune can feel Crocea searching about for the right word, ' _Born?'_ He suggests nervously.

Crocea sighs in frustration, _No, that just doesn't fit. I'm a sword for one, and souls aren't born, they're more-_ she trails off muttering under her breath.

She snaps her "fingers" in his head, making him jump in surprise, _Created. Ever since I was created I've had an aura._

 _'Cool, but_ _ **how**_ _?'_

She scratches at her chin in contemplation, at least judging from the way Jaune has to resist the sudden urge to do so, _Maybe it's because I was made out of my partner's aura, I guess having one of my own just came as part of the deal._

 _'So because you have an aura, my semblance is activated?'_ Jaune asks skeptically, ' _Look I see what you're getting at, but it just doesn't make any sense. How the hell does you having an aura directly correlate to me unlocking my semblance?'_

Crocea throws her hands up, confusion clear in her voice, _Look all I know is that I'm not doing this. I've never smelt smoke and tasted metal when I got near a loaded gun. I've also never had to deal with random information_ _ **that I already know**_ _popping into my head. So unless you have another partner I don't know about, it_ _ **has**_ _to be you doing this._

 _'Is there a way we can test this?'_ Jaune asks desperately, before rushing to elaborate in the face of her rising agitation, ' _It's not that I don't believe you, but come on, this sounds ridiculous.'_

Crocea growls dangerously at his apparent denial. _No we can't, it only works in the first place because I'm attached to you._

 _Besides_ _I already told you, I don't_ _care how it's_ _ **supposed**_ _to work. This is the only possible explanation for what's happening to you, and if you want to be a coward, then too bad. It's here, it's real, and you need to accept it._

The anger fades in an instant, one moment there and gone the next, she softens, possibly sensing his rapidly rising apprehension, _I know it's scary, and I'm sorry for that. You wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for me. But you have to_ face _it, because it isn't going away on it's own. I really want to help you learn to control it, but you have to let me._

His first instinct is to fight back, to rage and scream with denial, he isn't weak and a damned piece of metal doesn't get to lecture him on _bravery_ of all things.

His left hand is twitching by his side, and it's so _so_ tempting to hurl Crocea across the room at his dresser, to send glass and wood chips scattering throughout the room and across the floor like a macabre art display.

Just one practiced motion, almost no different than when he threw the "knife" at Janet. One, two, three, four, five, six, throw.

It would be so _easy_.

But he can't.

Jaune lets his anger drain out with a sigh, his shoulders slumping tiredly. she isn't right, isn't anywhere close to it. But he won't prove that by fighting with her.

' _What do you want me to do?'_ He asks, a kind of tired acceptance in his voice.

To her credit Crocea doesn't gloat. Just dances phantom fingers across his shoulder, tugging lightly at his sleeve as she speaks, _Let's go up to the attic._

Jaune grabs Crocea off his pillow, swinging his legs over the side of his bed with a shrug. Before throwing his weight forward and staggering to his feet with Crocea as a cane. As he slowly makes his way out into the hallway he can't help but ask, ' _Why do we need to go there?'_

 _Well we need to see exactly your semblance works don't we? And unless you're willing to sneak into someone's room…_

She pauses to laugh at his response of overwhelming horror and ' _The attic sounds like a great idea.'_ before continuing, _I imagine that's the only place you can get your hands on a weapon._ _Now mush, I'll explain when we get there._

' _You kind of forgot about the busted leg didn't you?'_ Jaune asks, gesturing loosely towards the ladder in front of them, before tapping the sheath lightly against the floor a few times and letting it echo through the empty guest room. ' _I'm using you as a cane. Or did you forget that too?'_

Wind chimes ring in his head, _Oh fuck off._ and he can't help but laugh with her, at least until her palm makes contact with the back of his head, nearly sending him to the floor.

 _You have three good limbs. Use them._

 _'Hate you_.' Jaune replies, ambling his way up to the ladder and wrapping his left arm around one of the rungs for stability, and clipping Crocea to his belt with his right. _'For the record,'_ Jaune states before wrapping his right arm tightly around the same rung, bending his right leg at the knee in preparation. _'This was your idea.'_

He pulls hard on the ladder, at the same time jumping with his right leg. There's a moment of _'Oh god.'_ before his good leg comes down somewhat clumsily on the 2nd to bottom rung, he leans forward and holds tight, just barely managing to maintain his balance.

Looking up at the rest of the way Jaune can't help but sigh, _'This might take a while.'_

Jaune jumps his way up the final rung, collapsing to the floor of the attic in a heap, chest heaving as he greedily gasps for air. _'We are never doing that again.'_ He says, and god help her if she argues.

 _Oh come on, it wasn't that bad was it?_ His reply comes in the form of detaching her from his belt, leaning back to dangle his right arm over the opening, _'Don't tempt me.'_ He says tapping the sheath against a few rungs for effect, _'I think my grip is slipping.'_

She swats him hard on the top of his head, making him slam the back of his head into the floor from surprise. _Oops. Sorry about that._ She says, sending a chill through his head to ease the pain (and hopefully prevent bruising, that would be... _hard_ to explain.)

 _'What am I supposed to do?'_ He asks, pulling himself up into a sitting position, with his eyes turned pointedly towards the floor, counting the lines in the floor as he waits for her reply. It's the only thing he can do that doesn't involve looking at weaponry, and while he might be okay with training his apparent semblance. It doesn't meant that he isn't at least uneasy about the idea.

Having foreign information suddenly pop into his head just from a simple glance is slightly disconcerting at best, and absolutely horrifying at worst.

She lays a hand across his shoulder in an effort to comfort him, _Just look at one of them. We need to gauge how strong the reaction is, I promise it's safe. Just be careful, looking at the handgun already gave you a headache, so make sure to only look at_ _ **one**_ _._

Which doesn't do anything to ease his apprehension, but hey if he's honest nothing probably _could_ make him feel better.

He steels his nerves, rolling his shoulders back and forwards in an attempt to psych himself up, to prepare for the flood of information.

One more breath. In through his nose and out through his mouth. Heartbeat echoing loudly in his ears. _Just get it over with._ Crocea says, whispering the words quietly in his ear.

Jaune looks up, and catches sight of an axe, it's the same one that he'd almost had embedded in his foot two days prior. There's a moment where he stares at the double-sided thing, absently wondering why the hell he'd lifted it earlier, (because it was just asking for an injury.)

The knowledge hits a second later, winding it's way into his skull and slamming into his brain with an almost physical force. Jaune chokes on his breath, falling onto his back frantically clutching at his head. Letting a sharp scream of pain tear it's way out of his throat as it washes over him.

 **Double sided short-range axe made of a lightweight steel-ceramic mesh with an oak handle. Fortified by small metal rods placed at key break points. Forged in the year &$ %**

The words abruptly change to a ear-splitting screech and his fingers tighten against his skull to try and make it _stop_. Crocea's saying something, shouting frantically in his ears, but he can't make out the words.

It continues on.

 **Weight: 9 pounds**

 **Total length: 30 inches**

 **Length of axe-head: 12 inches**

He rolls onto his side hoping to somehow break the connection, only to see another weapon, a pole-arm leaned against the wall, its tip reaching high up into the rafters.

Another flood of information starts, and if the pain was bad before it's absolute _torture_ now. His screams grow even louder, and there's the slightly metallic tang that even through his agony induced haze he recognizes as blood in his mouth.

Crocea isn't audible anymore having been drowned out by the second wave of information, but he's almost certain she's saying something because she's frantically pulling and poking at parts of him to try and find some way to ease the pain.

In a rush of adrenaline he hauls himself to his feet, fingers clawing desperate little trenches in his hair. His injured knee buckles under his weight, the limb spamming violently beneath him in protest.

He slips backwards from the force of its spasms, and keeps going. Falling quickly down and past the ladder, the floor rushing up from below as if to catch him. He lands hard on his back, the wind painfully knocked out of his lungs, his mouth open in a now silent scream of agony.

Darkness follows, and he welcomes it's relief.

 **Chapter end!**

 **Chapter 5 done! Yay. I finally managed to (somewhat) establish what the hell is going on with Jaune, and why he knows things he shouldn't.**

 **I will also be editing a couple little things in chapters one through four later today (just stuff like the three spelling mistakes, the time I forgot how to basic arithmetic when it came to number of family members staring, stuff like that.)**

 **Oh yeah, I changed one of the genres of this story. That plot section has been planned since the beginning and I ultimately chose to remove the hurt/comfort tag, because while it will be a rather prevalent theme of this story.**

 **I didn't think it would be right to not let people know that hey: Kinda illegal shit is gonna go down at some point.**

 **And yes I am aware what happened when he looked at the handgun last chapter, it's a semblance in it's very early stages of development and control.**

 **(Also controlled and unlocked by something that isn't his own aura, differing reactions in strength and intensity can be expected.)**

 **Also I don't like to include the really little details unless they come up later in the story (I don't mean like people's names and inane questions.)**

 **More like the really tiny, at first useless seeming details. Like the hand somebody used to do something, or what kind of room something is, stuff like that.**

 **So thank you for reading, please review and all that fun stuff. Hopefully I can update faster this time.**

 **VAGUE SPOILERS: (Or in reference to this chapter: What materials would have flown off Jaune's dresser if he had thrown Crocea.)**

 **So for future chapters: Yes I did mention it, you'd have to be a detail freak like me to bother noticing it. But I did mention it.**


	6. Moving forward

"Speaking"

' _Thoughts_ '

 _Something_ _else_

 **Weapon info**

 **~~~~~Four Years Earlier~~~~~**

 _August 28th_

It's 9:00 A.M and breakfast has just started. All of them except Jaune are sat at the table, their silverware at the side and plates ready for food.

The kitchen is filled with the low buzz of early morning activity. Most of which is provided by Viola lazily tapping out a beat against the tabletop while they wait, her normally bright eyes now a dark azure tint framed by deep purple rings and tangled blonde strands that don't cascade so much as tumble down to just below her shoulder-blades.

Which is kind of ironic given that her only form of meaningful conversation thus far has been muttering vague "uh-huhs" and "yeahs" to any and all questions. Too out of it to do much else but stare blankly at the kitchen wall.

Which Janet and Brianna must have taken as some sort of challenge. Or at least that's the only logical reason that Jane can think of for how they've been spending the past five minutes periodically chiming in with the most vulgar questions they can conjure up. Leaning forward in their seats all bright eyed and bushy tailed, only to nearly fall out of them when Viola inevitably responds with another "uh-huh."

Although _in_ _reality_ Brianna's been doing most of the actual asking. Leaving Janet to just kick back, and only interject when a particularly good one comes to mind.

Jane _would_ say something, but she's probably the only one who's actually been keeping count, So _nah_.

Admittedly she'd probably find it funny too, but apparently she's too young to understand because she can barely understand half of the words they're saying. But judging by the sound of Jaune repeatedly failing to put a pan in the oven _he_ certainly finds it funny. Which is...concerning, because she's pretty sure a lot of those words have four letters.

The powers at be must decide to take mercy on Jane's rapidly deteriorating sanity. Because their entertainment is suddenly cut short when Viola's head falls forward, her arms slumping by her sides and her head coming to a halt against the table with a dull _thud._ Jane isn't exactly _upset_ about this, but she still can't completely stifle a wince of sympathy, because _ouch._

There's a loud screech as the twins fall out of their seats. With Brianna clutching her stomach and laughing for all she's worth, while Janet giggles into her sleeve, having clearly opted for the less dangerous option of expressing her mirth. It's still incredibly obvious, but all Janet has to do to avoid Viola's wrath is be less obvious than her sister. So she's _probably_ fine.

Still if Jane's being realistic Viola having an excuse to vent her frustrations probably doesn't sound like much of a consolation when she's still being laughed at. Thankfully the twins laughter quickly dies down when Jean leans down to quietly point out that Viola's _probably awake_ _now_.

The death glare that Viola gives them under the table is just the confirmation needed to have them scrambling back into their seats. While Jaune very quietly tiptoes over to replace her sharp, potentially stabby silverware with plastic variants. Before quickly making his way over to the pantry doors, because Viola will probably be wanting coffee very soon, and _he_ isn't going to be the one that actually sets her off.

"Up all night with lesson plans again?" Jean asks, with a concerned tone that at the same time is completely ruined by her smirk.

Viola just rolls with it, stretching her arms behind her head and leaning hard against the back of her seat, letting out a low groan at the way her bones _pop!_ with the movement. Then dropping the heels of her hands back down to her eyes and pressing against them so hard it hurts to look at, "Kill me now." She finally responds, now looking at least semi-aware.

"You're the one who chose Signal." Jean says pointedly, "Could have taught at Beacon, but for some reason you chose to teach kids who don't know what their doing." She reaches out to take a sip of water, setting the cup back down with a light _ting_ , "I mean, what exactly _did_ you expect?"

"I know what I signed up for smartass." Viola replies with a glare, "But nobody ever mentioned that I'd have to hand in lesson plans." Viola says leaning forward to rest her cheek against the table as if it will somehow make the work go away.

"I mean come on, I'm a combat teacher! Who cares about _lesson_ _plans?"_ She scrunches her nose like the very idea is somehow offensive to her, "I can't exactly give a detailed explanation of: Don't be the one getting punched in the face."

"You could use more words, for one." Jaune calls back over his shoulder.

Viola doesn't even look up, instead opting for twirling her wrist vaguely in his direction, "Jaune." She warns, "I love you very much. But for the love of everything, could you just drop the sarcasm and get me some coffee?"

"I'm _trying_." Jaune huffs back towards the table. "But I can't find it."

There's a slight pause where Viola processes this new information, before propping herself up on her elbows, turning her glare across the table. "Jean." Viola warns, "Coffee, where is it? _Now._ "

To Jean's credit she does a very good job of at least _acting_ surprised. Wide eyes and a dumbstruck expression, reeling back in her chair the legs tilting so far off balance that for a moment Jane's certain that she'll fall, "M-Me? Why do you think I had anything to do with it?"

"Because you suck." Viola deadpans, lightly tapping her pointer finger against the tabletop, "Coffee. _Where?"_

There's a long awkward silence where neither of them speak, with Jean quietly squirming under the weight of Viola's accusation (or vague threat of bodily harm, but whatever it's one of the two.) before slowly shifting her gaze down to the table and quietly murmuring, "It's onthetopshelf."

"Thank you Jean." Viola says smugly, raising her voice to say, "Jaune, top shelf."

" _Again_?" He groans.

"Yeah, I know." Viola replies, cocking her head to the left and glaring Jean in the eyes, "Strange, isn't it?"

Jane can't exactly blame her for being grumpy. Normally they'd have been eating by now, would have been digging into food so good she can feel her mouth watering at the thought. Leaving Viola to slink back into bed afterwards and sleep until an "Hour meant for normal people." as she so kindly put it.

But unfortunately for all of them the kitchen is one cook short, and poor Jaune has been rushing about all morning in an effort to compensate for the loss of his partner. With his socks squeaking across the wood floor in frantic little steps as the soundtrack.

Jaune's still rummaging through the pantry, now muttering bad words—or at least bad words for a nine year old—under his breath as he stretches on his toes for the coffee tin. Although apparently he still hasn't learned the art of subtlety yet, because they'd have to be deaf not to hear it.

There's an audible groan and a dull thud that sounds like somebody kicking a wall, and with a huff Jaune emerges from the pantry. Loudly stomping his way over to the table with a scowl spread across his face. Reaching up and grabbing the rim of his chair, and quickly dragging it across the kitchen with an uncomfortable grimace at the way the legs screech against the floor. All-the-while muttering a steady stream of "profanity" under his breath.

There's a thud, a slight creak as he stands up on the chair and the same muttered words as he stretches up for the top shelf. "Found it!" Jaune cries, pulling the coffee tin free from the pantry with a grunt, stepping back off the chair with a satisfied hum and pushing it back into place at the end of the table. Then socks slipping against the floor as he moves the coffee tin onto the counter, before dashing about to grab the other necessary materials.

Jane's continued staring is interrupted by the sound of a knife scratching across wood, she turns her head back to her sisters to find them in the middle of a tense discussion. A quick glance back over her shoulder assures her that Jaune's too distracted to eavesdrop, and she leans in with an almost morbid curiosity.

"Somebody's gonna have to wake him up." Viola says, the previous argument forgotten as she uncomfortably nudges her shoulder in the direction of the staircase, "I did it yesterday, so you guys'll have to work it out between yourselves." She says with a frown, gesturing at all of them with the knife clutched between her middle and pointer fingers.

Apparently Jean hasn't learned the art of shutting her mouth, because she snorts in her seat, straightening her spine and blowing hair out of her eyes with a huff, "Should have coffee boy do it." She says gruffly, pointing back over her shoulder with her thumb, "It's his fault anyways."

"Oh bullshit." Brianna chimes in from Jean's left side, unknowingly sparing her sister from a thrashing, "You know it isn't, he's nine years old." She lifts her hand in the air twirling her finger in little circles next to her skull, "He concussed himself last month when dad tried to teach him how to fish. So, it's just a hunch, but I think planning this might be a _little_ bit beyond him." She drops her hands back to the table with a snort.

Jean visibly tenses in her seat, her hackles rising at the insult, "Why the hell do you care?" She asks.

Brianna gestures at Viola across the table, before poking at the inside of her ear with her pinky, "Might wanna get your ears checked. Or did you just ignore the part about it being hard for all of us?"

Jean's reply is muffled by the sound of the coffeemaker starting up. Everyone turns to stare at Jaune, who steps back against the counter when he realizes he's being watched.

"Uh, sorry?" He says, nervously rubbing at the back of his head, before pointing back over his shoulder with crimson cheeks, "I remembered how to do it." He mutters, quickly making his way over to the stove and distractedly fiddling with the knobs. His shoulders remaining tensed until they turn back around.

"So like I was saying." Brianna says quietly, a mystified expression on her face, "Just exactly what makes you think it's his fault? I mean if you have to blame someone…" She trails off, before twirling her wrist towards the upstairs bedrooms, "Well, ya know?"

Jean settles back in her chair with a tired sigh, runs a hand through her hair bunching her fingers up in the almost brown strands, "Look, I just _do_ okay?" She finally says. "I can't explain _why_. I just...do."

"That isn't good enough. He's _nine._ " Brianna repeats, letting frustration seep into her tone, a scowl settling over her features, "He can't help what happened. We couldn't stop it, so why did you expect him to?"

"His _age_ doesn't matter." Jean snaps back suddenly lunging forward in her seat, teeth clenched in a tight grimace of a frown, making Brianna flinch back in the face of her rising agitation. While Jane nervously looks back to find Jaune still stood at the stove, his hands smoothly going through the motions. "And he damn sure had more to do with it than the rest of us." Jean says, and there's something in the back of her gaze that reminds Jane of broken glass.

Their "conversation" is cut-short by Jaune collapsing into his chair with a tired sigh, making them all jump in their seats. Although if he actually managed to make sense of what they were saying, then he certainly doesn't show any sign of it. "Vi." He whines, kicking his feet against the edges of his chair, "Why can't you make breakfast?"

"Somebody has to know how to cook around here." Viola drones for what must be the tenth time this month, pausing only to flash him a tired smile that stretches painfully pale skin across high cheekbones. "Besides, at least you know the basics."

Unfortunately for her that doesn't seem to placate him in the slightest, "Knowing isn't the problem." He replies with a frustrated huff, gesturing about wildly with his hands as he continues, "The work is! I used to do this with dad, and now I have to do it on my own."

Jean lunges forward abruptly, her chair screeching loudly against the floor as it moves with her, "Well maybe if you hadn't-" She starts angrily, only to be cut off by a hand closing over her mouth.

"Actually Jaune." Viola says, smiling serenely while Jean struggles against her hand, mumbling in a way that sounds suspiciously like 'Let go, I can't breathe!' "I've changed my mind. Why don't you go wake dad up; I'll finish making breakfast."

"Ok!" Jaune replies, hopping out of his chair with seemingly boundless energy, rushing out into the hall and starting his way up the stairs.

Viola just stands there smiling at his now empty chair, only letting her expression even out when the 'thump thump thump' of Jaune's feet plodding against the steps becomes inaudible.

Removing her hand from Jean's rapidly bluing face she crosses back to her side of the table, sitting back down with slow deliberate grace. Ignoring the way that Jean is currently gasping for breath.

"Now Jean." Viola says, sending a glare towards the girl that goes largely unnoticed because of the whole 'oxygen deprivation' thing, "Do you have anything to add?"

More choking noises, a beat of concerned silence, "No, Vi." Jean finally croaks, reaching up to rub at her throat with her right hand, "But could you please aim a little bit higher next time?" She coughs roughly, her shoulders shaking with the force, "Think you caught my windpipe there."

"Jane." Viola calls, making the girl in question jolt in her seat, "Would you please fix that? I may have gone a bit-" A guilty twitch of her lip, a subtle glance out the corner of her eye. They'll make up within the hour, Jane's sure of it.

"Overboard." She finally says.

Jane shifts out of her seat making her way to the right side of the table, and lets out a surprised squeak when Jean pulls her off the ground setting her in her lap with a grunt.

"Still have you though, don't I?" She rasps, reaching up to tease her hair when Jane averts her eyes. "Oh come on. You're never gonna get better at it if you don't practice."

Jane struggles against Jean's grip forcing her to let go or risk being pushed out of her chair. She stops next to her sister, lifting a hand and pressing against her throat. " _Jerk_." She mutters under her breath, lightly stamping her bare foot against the kitchen floor.

Light pulses to life in her hand, flickers for a moment, and evens out into a dim white glow. Her aura is doing its job, helping damaged skin regenerate and slowly removing the dark bruise near the top of Jean's throat. But it's too slow, imprecise, it's _effective_ sure. But if there's ever an emergency Jane would be too slow to help.

They'll have to do something about that.

 _Upstairs_

The covers are heavy against his skin, suffocatingly so, snuffing out all light and sound and morphing the world into a muted monochrome shade. And yet all he wants to do is bury himself into them even further. To bury himself under the softness and warmth and just _forget_ , even if only for a little while.

The first few days had been better at least, in that sad and twisted kind of logic that only a broken man can justify. At least then he hadn't felt anything, a cold numbness having rooted itself deep in the pit of his stomach and spreading through his veins like a poison that kept him mercifully loopy and unable to process it.

Because she's _gone_. Gone gone gone gone gone, and it's all his fault. Bury himself even deeper because for all his efforts the blanket can't muffle her _smell_. A faint smell of flowers and mangoes that fills his nose and makes his limbs ache with a kind of regret that burrows past his skin and tears at bone instead.

Elias isn't a stranger when it comes to loss, being a huntsman has its risks, and one of them is a slowly dwindling pool of friends. Whether it be through death, disappearance, or just cutting contact. It's something he's used to.

But she wasn't supposed to _leave_. They were going to be together forever, were supposed to grow old together. And she's gone.

His hand is tightly bunched up in the covers pulling himself further and further into a cocoon of warmth. He's supposed to be the strong parent, the unshakable one, always ready when trouble arises. But god it _hurts_. Steals his breath away and pulls the rug out from under him in the most gut wrenching kind of agony.

He's supposed to be strong, and he's accepted that. But no one told him he'd have to be strong through _this_. With no one to confide in because all he has are children _his_ _children_ who wouldn't be able to handle it because they're hurting enough as it is, and a scroll filled with friends he hasn't talked to in years.

He's perched upon the edge of a great abyss, stubbornly digging his heels in as he slides along the dirt in a show of defiance that day by day seems more and more pointless. Ignoring the way that it calls out in a voice that resonates down to his bones, calling out with promises of rest and emptiness and _the world would stop if you just let it._

Those days turn into the worst nights, where long after the kids have gone to sleep and he can muster up the energy to sneak into the kitchen and bury himself under whatever alcohol is left in the house. Where eventually he's left sat with his back against his headboard, staring at his knives across the room through glassy eyes; wondering if there really is any point at all.

It'd be easy, just two long almost lazy lines across his wrists, he's done almost the same to other people a number of times. What would be the difference; the circumstances maybe, the people most definitely, but the outcome would be the same. A cold husk of what had once been a person, and the knowledge that he had ended everything they ever were and ever _could_ be _._

For some reason that sounds strangely appealing right now.

Her sneakers thud lightly against the dirt as she makes her way up the path. Hands lazily nestled in pockets, the bracelet on her forearm lightly clinking when the wind rushes by. The only real noise is coming from the sheath lightly knocking against her hip, the knife inside secured in place by a strap made of wrinkled brown leather.

She rounds a bend in the road, and their house finally comes into view. Admittedly she'd never quite wrapped her mind around exactly _why_ they'd chosen to build a home at the edge of town, rather than taking any of the residential lodgings near the center. They were certainly big enough, but no they lived out here instead.

Then again, nobody had really had any complaints about this. People weren't exactly going to argue with the extra protection.

As she stares at it in the distance she can't help but notice that even from this far away she can still make out signs of the events from the past month. A thin coat of something that looks like dust settled over Elias and M- _Elias'_ bedroom window, with once bright blue curtains now a dull faded pink, and the window itself drawn tight. A flower bed near the front door with roses that had once been her pride and joy, the stems cracked from dehydration and the petals falling off in broken little pieces.

She can't quite smother the feeling that she should bring new flowers; some Hydrangeas maybe? ' _Elias liked blue didn't he?'_ She thinks before brushing it aside with a chuckle, if she's going through the trouble of importing them from Vale than he'd better.

After what seems like an eternity she reaches the front door pausing in her stride to soak-in the sounds of chatter filtering through the door, she can't help but smile letting some of the tension drain out of her frame. ' _I guess I'm more nervous than I thought.'_

With a steady hand she knocks on the door, counting out a steady little beat ' _1 2 3; 1 2 3; 1 2 3._

"Coming!" A voice bellows from the kitchen followed soon after by the light plodding of feet against wood. A lock turns, shortly followed by another ' _click'_ and the door swings inward. Revealing Jane stood behind it, clad in a pair of cotton pajamas and a yellow long-sleeved shirt with a flower emblazoned upon the right sleeve.

All things considered she'd planned this out pretty well, had prepared a whole speech and everything; even gone to the extent of describing the position without going in depth enough to scare the poor girl. After all they've just been through something pretty rough and the last thing she wants to do is scar Jane. Except she'd forgotten one thing. Jane is really goddamn cute.

As if the world wants to make her visit even more awkward a scream rings out from upstairs, leaving the woman to haphazardly shove her way past Jane in favor of investigating. ' _Oh you have gotta be kidding.'_

 **~~~~~End flashback~~~~~**

There's a hand against his forehead, an unseen power vibrating beneath its fingertips. Rushing through his body in tiny little rivulets of white light. Slowly but surely working their magic over his various aches and pains.

Jane slumps back in her seat with a sigh, raises an arm to wipe at her face, and grimaces at the thin layer of sweat that it brings with it. ' _Gonna_ _need to shower again.'_ She thinks with a roll of her eyes.

Don't get her wrong, there obviously isn't anything wrong with showering. But when she's already had to do it twice today, with the second only taking place a little more than an hour ago; needless to say it's a little...annoying.

A laugh bubbles up in her throat unexpectedly as she looks down at Jaune, watching as his expression (just moments before crumpled in a pained grimace that made her stomach seize with anxiety) slowly smooths out into a blank mask.

She can't help but think that if Jaune were actually awake he'd no doubt be shocked at the sudden change in scenery. After all, it isn't everyday he wakes up in her room.

'Kinda glad he isn't.' She thinks, looking around at the semi-chaotic state of her room, with a lone medical tray set neatly on her nightstand, two of the three syringes have been completely drained and she kinda hopes she won't have to use the third one.

It's a somewhat sharp contrast with the clothes strewn over the floor, only interspersed by several scraps of paper covered in hastily drawn medical diagrams.

Each diagram is painstakingly gone over in red ink, adding notes such as ' _Swap names for third and fourth phalanges.'_ Or the far more detailed, ' _This would be a great idea for treatment! If the patient weren't likely to bleed out before the transfusion; apply tourniquet and do it five minutes earlier with an extra bag on-hand and they should be fine until you can close the wound. We can get more blood, people are less replaceable.'_

' _Yeah I officially need to clean my room.'_ Jane decides slumping forward with her elbows propped against her knees, an annoyed grimace on her face. If she's honest with herself it isn't that big of a deal, might take half an hour at the absolute most, but it's such a _pain_.

She chooses to ignore the very obvious fact that if she did it more often it would probably be less of a hassle. At this point that solution is about a week too late.

Her gaze slips back to her brother's prone form, and a smirk slowly spreads its way across her face as an idea takes shape. ' _Although...I could have Jaune clean it as payment.'_

These are the times she really appreciates her semblance, because who's dumb enough to get on the bad side of the person stitching you back together? Jane's delight is short-lived, her foot brushes against something soft as she shifts in her seat, and she looks down confused, before hastily kicking a bra under her bed with a flush of embarrassment.

On the other hand, she _could_ just have him make pancakes again. ' _Yeah...I'll do that instead.'_ She decides, before a scowl sets over her features, ' _Not like I can cook worth a damn anyway.'_

Which is a little bit humiliating, she can set a bone with a simple application of her semblance, but cooking is too hard. Life's kinda fun that way. Although to be fair it isn't like she hasn't tried, but cooking is just something that Jaune and her dad have always done, even before... _that_. Plus after a few disastrous lessons it got kinda easy to just let everybody else handle it, and it's really weird to realize that she's literally the worst cook in the house.

Besides she does know how to cook something, sure it's scrambled eggs but hey, it is something.

The sound of her alarm clock's buzzer blaring throughout the room jolts her back to reality, a wave of guilt following shortly after. ' _Five minutes left.'_ She thinks, reaching to her left and gently tapping a few buttons, making an iridescent red 5:00 appear on the face and start counting down.

It isn't perfect, much too imprecise for anything more serious, she'd rather have an actual watch or something. But it's close enough within the margin of error to work.

With a sigh she lowers her gaze to his now exposed knee, the admittedly ratty pair of jeans at some point exchanged for a pair of black gym shorts, 'Thank you Jean.' She thinks, because while yes she is a medic, there are limits and that is one of them.

It's still cracked, even a cursory glance says that much. With newly darkened bruising spreading out from the center like the roots of a gnarled tree, and if Jane has to guess he's managed to undo all the work she'd done a few hours ago. Which is...concerning to say the least.

Still, it shouldn't be hard to fix, and with her skill it won't be. But there's a familiar chill seeping into her limbs, a sensation vaguely like being caught in a winter rain. Pulling and tugging at her shoulders like an insurmountable weight. It's a warning, one that some hunters think of as nothing but an inconvenience. But thanks to her particular semblance, it's always been less of an annoyance, and more of a death-sentence if it were to occur in the wrong place.

Still, she's running on fumes at this point, and can only do so much before he wakes up and has to deal with the pain for a day until she recovers.

Which leaves her with a choice, and a rather unpleasant one at that. A near broken leg, or a bruise spanning more than half of his back?

It sounds easy, but she's seen enough cases where back pain was just as if not more debilitating than a broken limb. So she has to be smart. The last thing Jane wants to do is heal his leg only to discover that the back pain is so severe he can't walk anyways.

A sideways glance informs her that she's already wasted two minutes. The decision takes less than a second, and with a sigh Jane closes her eyes. Looks inward for that familiar warmth in her chest, and after a deep steadying breath; pushes deeper to the bright white beneath the surface.

White light bursts to life in her hand warming her fingers and momentarily easing the numbness in her arms. She leans forward lowering her hand over Jaune's injured leg, her brow scrunching as she focuses on stitching his bones back together.

It takes less than two minutes.

With a suddenly exhausted sigh Jane slumps forward onto her bed, sweat covering her forehead with a light sheen as she takes deep gulps of air to try and catch her breath. Her arms feel like dead weights now, hanging limply by her sides, stoutly refusing to react to her commands.

' _Now all I have to do is wait.'_

Jaune wakes a minute later, a groan scraping its way past his throat as his eyes flutter open in the dim light of her room. With a pained grunt he heaves himself forward, throwing out an arm to catch himself when he almost bashes his face against the headboard. Blinking the cobwebs out of his vision and turning his head to look around her room.

There's a crease in his brow and a tenseness in his frame that suggests confusion, and Jane can almost hear the thoughts playing across his face ' _Where_ - _Where_ _am_ _I_?'

Her alarm clock chooses to go off right then. Which is _great_ , she's always thought that nothing made reorienting a mentally confused patient easier than _loud noises_.

"Trn-Turn that offf." She manages to slur, before attempting to shake off the fuzziness in her head. Only to decide against it when her vision starts swimming, the walls of her room slowly shifting and melting until they finally coalesce into a light muted gray.

She really should have thought this through.

Jaune at least seems to comprehend, slowly unfurling his limbs and leaning over on uneven hands to clumsily reach out and flip the off switch. Before slumping back onto her mattress with a pained groan.

"What happened?" Jaune asks, reaching rub at his forehead with a confused grimace.

"You fell." Jane replies simply, struggling to stay focused on the task at hand, her eyes zeroing in on his face and watching for the slightest twitch or grimace that could indicate disappointment. Internally heaving a sigh of relief when she only finds confusion.

"How'd you fi-" He chokes, reaching up and pressing a splayed hand against his ribs with a frustrated scowl, roughly clearing his throat before continuing. "How'd you find me?"

Jane pauses, slowly working her jaw in contemplation; how should she answer this? The truth is usually a bit unsettling, but she's pretty sure that Jaune wouldn't exactly enjoy being lied to.

There's also the fact that he'd find out the actual details from Jean the second she saw him, so it would just come back to bite her in the-

' _Yeah okay.'_ She decides with a sigh

"You started screaming."

"Well it took you long enough." Jaune replies, leaning back against her pillows in a way that tries to look nonchalant, and fails horribly when Jane can visibly see his skin paling in contrast to his shorts.

Her temper flares at that, sarcasm isn't needed when they're discussing his injuries, "What the hell does that-" She starts to ask, before her training promptly slams her over the head with disapproval, ' _Ask questions later. Your priority is to help the patient regain their bearings and assess if any injuries have been missed. Or in the worst case scenario, diagnose if permanent damage has been inflicted.'_ She closes her mouth with a huff, opens it again, and answers.

"You were on the floor when we found you, clutching your head and screaming like crazy."

"Oh." Jaune replies, flitting his eyes wildly about the room, his mind cataloging everything for...later or something. It's a fairly useless task, but the longer he can avoid having to actually _explain_ what they'd been doing the better.

"What's with the syringes then?"

Jane at least manages to look surprised at his sudden line of questioning, before settling back and speaking with a slight sudden drawl, "Propofol, 12.25 cc's. It-It's basiclly anesthesha without knocking you out."

"What the hell was the point of that?"

"It has the bonush of making it to where you don't remember things."

"And does this matter?"

"Yeah." Jane slurs, forcing her eyes to focus on his face, "Made it eashier to move you, plus I don't think you wanna remember how much it hurt."

"Why didn't you just put me under then?"

"You had a concushun, why do you think?"

Jaune opens his mouth to speak, only to lean back with a sigh when he realizes that he doesn't really have any more questions to ask. Besides she probably isn't going to answer any of the ones he _can_ think of.

Crocea must have been watching while he was unconscious, because she chooses that moment to make her presence known, a soothing tendril of cold spreading its way throughout his body as she speaks. _You could just walk out._ She says, absently brushing his cheek with a hand, _It's not like she can move right now._

' _I don't know if you've noticed,'_ He mentally drawls, letting the cold clear away some of the fog still settled over his mind, ' _But I don't actually hate my family. You have picked up on that, right?'_

 _Aw._ She replies with a mock pout, and he has to suddenly deal with the mental confusion of being able to feel the expression on his lips, but not actually be _doing_ it; which is...strange to say the least.

 _No offense._ She continues, _But they aren't exactly doing themselves any favors in terms of "likability."_

Any retort he can muster up to that...statement is cut off by Jane throwing her weight forward, slumping off her seat and clumsily thumping her arm against his leg as she falls.

"No phair, phou didn't anpher my queshun." Jane mumbles into the carpet, only managing to tilt her head up enough to spit out a few carpet fibers with a weak groan, "A litt-A little help please?" She manages to ask.

Jaune springs to his feet, "Crap, sorry!" He says, reaching down and awkwardly hooking a hand around one of her arms while his other reaches up to grab the top pillow off of her bed, setting it on the carpet to her right.

Gripping her arm with both hands he pulls, letting out a grunt of exertion and turning her onto her back. Slumping back against the carpet with crossed legs when she's finally situated.

"Thansh." Jane mutters staring up at the ceiling and breathing heavily as sweat runs down her forehead in long rivulets that pool in the spaces between the bones of her neck.

Jaune leans forward with hands on his knees, reaching out and brushing a few stray locks of hair out of Jane's face, then discretely wiping his hand against the carpet when it comes away covered in sweat.

 _She's gonna be okay, right?_

' _I guess? I mean, I'm not usually around when she has to use her semblance.'_

 _How is that even remotely possible?_ Crocea snarks, reaching up and twirling his hair with her fingers for added effect.

Jaune shrugs, listening to the sound of fabric sliding over his skin and Jane's breathing, ' _I don't know? It just kinda...is; she doesn't really do much medic work here.'_

 _Where does she do most of her "medic work" then?_

' _Ya know there's a really good answer to that, I'd love to tell yo-'_

He abruptly ends that line of questioning by reaching out and snapping his fingers in front of Jane's face, waiting for her eyes to focus before gesturing towards himself with two fingers.

 _Oh you mother-_

"So." He chirps, mentally casting about for a question because he should really have this down to a science by now but being a teenager _really_ doesn't work that way. _And_ Crocea is not happy with that little move so he should probably say something before she punches him.

"Why are you talking like that?" He asks, before turning bright red at the way Crocea starts slow-clapping.

 _I'm not even mad; you managed to go from clever right back down to stupid in a matter of seconds._ There's a beat and then she continues with a falsely sympathetic tone, _This happens a lot doesn't it?_

' _I am turning you to scrap metal I swear to-'_

"Itsh." Jane interrupts tiredly, _How does it feel to be on the receiving end?_ "My semblansh, usin it drains me of all my energy. Jean shaysh ish like bein...bein drunk." Her eyes are fluttering fast, and there's the slightest bit of color returning to her face.

"Are you okay?" Jaune asks, gently reaching out and laying a hand over her forehead.

Only for Jane to raise a hand and clumsily knock his away, "Mm fine." She says with an indignant scowl, "And don't be so scrd, mm-mm not gnna break on you."

"Still do you need any help?"

Jane limply flags her hand in the direction of her hand, "Jst put me back in bed." Raising a hand too close to his face and shaking it from side to side as she continues, "Dnt be worried, I jst-jst need to sleep this off."

"If you're sure." Jaune replies skeptically, reaching down and wrapping one arm around her legs and sliding the other under her back.

"Lft with the knees, gonna murdr you if you pull a mushle."

"Yeah, yeah." Jaune replies, slowly struggling up onto his feet, stumbling to the side for a moment before managing to steady himself. The muscles in his arms strain for a moment as he takes the two short steps needed to be at her bedside. "Well here you go." He says, unceremoniously dropping her back in bed and watching as the mattress bounces her up and down from the force.

"Jackass."

"Hey you're the one who asked."

"Whatever." Jane slurs, quietly nuzzling a cheek against her pillow with a smile, "Get me a blnket or somethin before you go."

One minute later and he has her wrapped up, awkwardly shuffling against the floor as she snuggles herself up into a cocoon of warmth, letting out a contented sigh as she does.

"Well. If that's all you need I'm gonna leave you to rest, okay?" He asks, slowly making his way towards her bedroom door, stopping with a sigh when he realizes something, "Oh, and...thank you, for healing me."

"Yr welcome." Jane slurs, her eyes shutting and her body further sinking into the warmth of her bed.

Jaune closes the door, letting a hand slip down to his waist only to realize, ' _Hey...where are you?'_

 _Blondie threw me inside your room._ Crocea replies with a disapproving huff.

' _Great.'_

 _Not my fault_ Crocea replies dryly, _Don't exactly have any limbs to do something about it._

' _Never said it was.'_ Jaune says, lifting his foot forward and slowly padding his way down the hall to his room, ' _For the record.'_ Jaune says quietly, ' _I don't think it was your fault anyways.'_

There's a cold nuzzle of what feels like knuckles against his cheek, a cold tendril that dances it's way up his spine and pools like liquid metal in his chest, _Thank you_. Crocea replies.

As he takes the final few steps Jaune can't help but blush at her reaction. Twisting a hand up to nervously rub at the back of his head, and flinching when the muscles in his shoulders voice their protest. '' _S no problem.'_ He replies.

Jaune takes one more step, only to stop when his knee collides with his door with a dull _thud_. Wind chimes ring quietly in his ear and he can't do much but quietly mutter ' _Shut up.'_ with crimson cheeks. Before reaching out and twisting the handle, stepping through and into his room.

' _Now.'_ Jaune says, lazily turning his head to look around the room, ' _Where are you?'_

 _Other side of your bed, on the floor._ Crocea replies, _Hit the wall and kinda...bounced off? I guess.'_

' _Really respects my stuff doesn't she?'_

 _Partner._ Crocea corrects, _Not your stuff._

' _You know what I meant.'_ He snarks, quietly making his way across the room and grabbing Crocea off the floor, reaching up to hook her around his belt. Only to groan when his hands meet nothing but thin black fabric.

' _Great.'_ Jaune mutters, gently setting Crocea down onto his mattress before walking over to his dresser. Yanking open the third drawer and rifling through its contents, and removing his hands with a satisfied hum when he finds a suitable pair of jeans. And a belt, because he kinda needs that.

He moves to change his clothes, only to stop with a paranoid glance back over his shoulder when he realizes something. ' _You...can see me can't you?'_ Jaune half groans.

To her credit Crocea doesn't exactly beat around the bush about it, _It's not like I can help it._ She replies with no small amount of embarrassment, _I can either see what you do, or have a somewhat vague idea of our surroundings in general. And I'll be honest, it's kinda hard to filter the first one._

' _Ya know.'_ Jaune drawls turning back to face his bed, ' _Considering that I've changed clothes and used the bathroom multiple times these past few days. When exactly were you gonna tell me?'_ A blush flares up brightly in his cheeks, and he's honestly not sure who it belongs to, _Look I don't wanna talk about this either._

' _You've existed for centuries.'_ Jaune deadpans in reply.

 _Yeah but that doesn't mean I don't get embarrassed about stuff like this!_

' _That is the worst excuse I've ever heard.'_ Jaune replies, ' _I swear to god I might be in actual physical pain from how bad it is.'_

 _Just change in the bathroom or something._ Crocea replies nervously, _Don't look at the mirror and there's no problem, or at least less of one._

' _Fine.'_ Jaune replies, quickly making his way into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

 **Five minutes later**

 _You just had to look in the mirror, didn't you?_

' _Don't you pin this one me.'_ Jaune replies, his feet thudding against the carpet as they descend the stairs, an embarrassed blush spread across his cheeks.

 _It was so very easy_ Crocea bemoans with a heavy sigh, _But you went and forgot._

' _You're really bad at this whole shutting up thing, aren't you?'_

 _Ya know I have a whole batch of anesthesia side effects I could be letting you feel._

Jaune rounds the corner into the kitchen continuing their...discussion, ' _Well why don't you th-_ He starts, only to stop when he spots Jean stood at the counter staring blankly at the microwave, with her hair tied up and hands lazily splayed in her pockets.

' _Ya know what; never mind, kinda need my legs to work right now.'_ Jaune decides, slowly reversing his steps in an attempt to escape the lecture that he's sure is coming.

"Stop." Jean says, never taking her eyes off the timer. Removing her left hand from her pocket and pointing at the table, she continues, "Sit." Her voice is devoid of any emotion, and yet there's something in her posture that screams, _Don't you dare disobey._

Jaune doesn't argue, just quietly slides into his usual seat, his neck muscles inadvertently tightening when the chair scrapes across the floor with a loud screech that drowns out the low droning _hum_ of the microwave. "For the record." Jean says, settling her left hand back by her side while she points her right in the direction of the stairs, "I heard you before you even made it to the top."

"Show off." Jaune mutters under his breath, feeling a little grin spread across his face when Crocea snickers in response.

There's a dull _smack_ and Jaune looks up to find Jean hiding her face behind an open palm, glaring out at him between her fingers with an absolutely disappointed expression, "How did you think I wouldn't hear that?"

Jaune slowly opens his mouth to speak a confused tension swirling deep in his gut. Torn between answering and making Jean angry, or not answering and possibly making her more angry.

"Whatever. Just-just listen." Jean says, distractedly pressing the off button on the microwave and unwittingly plunging the room into a silence that only makes his heart pound harder against his ribcage. She crosses the room in long smooth strides, gliding into a seat opposite from him with her back straight and hands placed firmly against the table, "We need to talk."

His steps are hard and heavy against the ground, the leaves crunching beneath them; snapping and breaking like glass beneath his feet as he walks.

 _So…_ Crocea starts, awkwardly trying to spark up a conversation, only to be snuffed when he just keeps walking, with his head down and hands firmly jammed in the pockets of his hoodie.

Left right, left right, left right. It's a tedious pattern slow and robotic in nature, but he'll take that. At least this way it feels like he's working _towards_ something. What was the phrase; Put one foot in front of the other? He isn't doing anything like that.

What's he's doing isn't a gesture of defiance, it's a tantrum plain-and-simple. Meaninglessly lashing out at his family in a token burst of anger. Desperately wanting to feel important, like whether or not he gets up in the morning matters the smallest damn bit. To feel like his last name is his for a reason, and not just some random roll of the dice.

The problem with wanting to believe that is the reality is he himself is simply not important.

Jaune is many things but there's very few that he actively _tries_ to be, and realistic is one of them.

Sooner or later he'll run out of steam. Once it's gotten dark and the cold sets in, his anger will settle down to barely flickering embers; and he'll go back. Go back to a home where he doesn't belong, cold and hungry and just... _tired_.

It's like some kind of messed-up fairy tale, he thinks. Not the newer ones with all the death and tragedy painted and glossed over until there's barely anything left. No; it's like the older ones. The ones that his dad would read sometimes when he was a little kid, filled with tales of tragic heroes and wars between kingdoms, of people who lived and died for the hope of a better tomorrow.

While they sat with a blanket pulled over their heads and a small light clumsily wrapped between his tiny fingers, both of them muffling their laughs and gasps until either his mom found them or his little sister started crying.

There aren't a lot of cherished memories from around that time, but those- He draws in a shaky breath that rattles around in his ribcage, those were definitely the best.

 _Who's Marie?_

Jaune stumbles in surprise catching his foot on a stray tree root, spinning on his heel and coming to a stop against a nearby tree with a loud _thud_. Before sliding to the ground with a groan running a hand through his hair to check for any bleeding. Letting out a sigh of relief when there isn't any.

Crocea cringes in response, tentatively reaching out and brushing fingers over his cheek with an unsteady hand, _Sore subject?_ She asks.

Jaune has to fight down the urge to break away; quietly turning his gaze up to stare at a spot high in the trees with burning cheeks, ' _...Yeah; sore subject.'_ He finally mutters. The hand disappears, leaving him with a newly refreshed chill swirling high in his chest and a numbness spread across his cheek.

He very pointedly ignores the fact that he already kind of misses her touch; because it isn't anything like that. And even if it _was_ , he thinks with a slight chuckle; off the top of his head he can name at least several logistical problems with... _that._

A restrained sigh jerks him back to reality, tasting the edge of curiosity and concern sliding over his tongue. _You don't have to tell me._ Crocea says softly, _Everyone has their problems._ Her gentle smile turns into a small, sad chuckle that echoes like air rushing through wind chimes, _I have my own fair share myself._

Jaune swallows roughly, running his tongue over suddenly dry lips, "N-no." He finds himself saying, the words coming out rushed, syllables jumbled together into an almost indistinct sound. "I-I-Iwanttotellyou." His hands knot into fists by his side, nails digging into his palm, "I want to tell _someone_."

 _Then tell me._

Despite everything Jaune still finds himself caught off guard at her answer, leaning back against the tree with one hand and running the other through his hair. Puffing air out his nostrils in some strange attempt to steady his still pounding heart, "What do you wanna know?"

 _Let's just go back to the beginning._ Crocea starts with a gentle grin that he can feel the muscles in his cheeks instinctively try to imitate, _Who's Marie?_

Jaune thinks, tapping his fingers against the tree trunk in a beat of three, "Mar-" He starts only to choke on her name, roughly forcing himself past the sudden lump in his throat with a cough, " _She-_ she was my sister."

 _Was?_

Jaune nods pitifully, feeling a strange sort of relief when it sends his hair cascading down in front of his eyes; inadvertently concealing the tears that are just starting to form behind. It's a mostly useless comfort; they're the only ones around for a mile or so and he's almost certain that she can feel it. But nevertheless it's one that he gladly accepts.

"She's…not here anymore." He finally says. The words fitting strange and disjointed in his mouth, with tiny little edges that dig into his cheeks like razorblades if he dwells on it for too long. Everytime he thinks about it-about _her_ ; it never fails to make him feel like it's the first day all over again.

 _I know how that feels at least._ Crocea says with an almost bitter laugh, _Just going about your day, or thoughts for me cause I was stuck in an attic for_ \- She stops abruptly, waving that thought aside with a twirl of the wrist and a hitch in her breath, _You get the idea. Anyways you're minding your own business and something just catches your eye for some stupid reason. Ya turn to look and then just-you're back there again, and it's like they never left._ Her voice trails off into a whisper near the end and Jaune is hit by a sudden wave of melancholy that burns the back of his throat like bile.

Absently, Jaune realizes that was probably meant to make him feel better. It doesn't, at least not really. Sure the tears have slowed their advance for a moment; the curiosity enough for his body to have seemingly decided to give his already frayed nerves a moment of reprieve. But there's still a lump stuck in his throat turning every breath into a rattle that echoes throughout his chest. Leaned back against the tree, with bark catching and pulling at his clothing every few seconds, a question comes to his mind then; pulled into being from the nebulous ether of his thoughts.

It's one he's found himself wondering some nights; long after everyone else has gone to sleep, and the only sounds are the creaking and shifting of old wood and the tick of the clock secured above his dresser.

He'd never had anyone to talk to until recently, he thinks; might as well ask.

"Does it ever get better?"

Crocea sighs heavily, and he has to muffle the urge to flinch. _I don't know._ She says uselessly, _A lot of my former partners had mostly happy family lives._

Jaune does flinch this time, quickly biting back the anger rising in his throat and the ' _Why don't I then?'_ dancing upon his lips.

 _But some didn't._ She says, having sensed his rising agitation, _When I said that war used to be commonplace I wasn't exaggerating. Off the top of my head I can think of at least three partners where it seemed like a new conflict was starting every couple of years._ A new layer of sadness rises in his throat, this time mixed with the bittersweet tang of nostalgia, _I'm sure that it wasn't the best life for any of them. But it was theirs, and they made the best of it._

Jaune can't stifle a snort at that, leaning back against the bark with a sad grin, "Great advice." He drawls, "I'd never thought of the good ol' just grin and bare it. Oh wait, I _have_." He flops his arms out by his sides feeling grass scratch across his skin, "And look where that got us."

 _You know that's not what I meant._ Crocea replies sadly, _Come on, you're better than that._

"Then what _did_ you mean?" He asks, voice steadily working up into a low yell, "Waiting isn't doing anything. I keep a picture of her in my dresser for fuck's sake; if waiting was gonna help it would have done that by now!" The tears have started again, stinging the corner of his eyes while his throat draws tight.

She sighs heavily, running phantom touches up and down his spine before gently wrapping a hand around his own, _I know it sucks right now and it doesn't seem like there's any way out. But we'll get through it, I'll help you get through it. We're partners in this, it's not just you, or me, it's_ _ **us**_ _._ Phantom fingers crawl up to his arm, grip tight, _We'll make it better_. She says, and _pulls._

Jaune stumbles to his feet with a gasp, before bending over with hands on knees when the air catches painfully in his chest. Glaring down at his side he wheezes, "You are such a jerk." Before another coughing fit claims him.

She grins, small and bright and despite everything Jaune can't help but give into the twinging in his cheeks, the muscles quickly turning up into an imitation.

It falters a moment later, his grin crumbling under its own weight before easily smoothing out into the same sad expression.

Better, definitely, but not _fixed_.

"Yeah." Jaune replies, "Let's get to work on that."

 **Chapter done.**

 **I'm very sorry for my sudden disappearance these last couple months. But after a long period of writer's block and me restructuring the plot, I'm finally back to write. And I'm just gonna come out and say it, the next chapter is a pretty significant time-skip, I will still develop Jaune emotionally and physically, just in a slightly different way. And while I'm not going to promise an update schedule, I hope to have a new chapter ready every 2-3 weeks.**

 **So to those who followed and favorited my story, thank you. It's been a rough couple of months, and I really appreciate it.**

 **I hope to prove that I deserve your support.**


	7. Getting off the ground

"Speaking"

' _Thoughts'_

 _Something else_

 **Something more**

 _2 years later_

 _Jaune_

He wakes with a sharp, agonized gasp when fire erupts in the right side of his chest, burning like hot iron against his flesh and twisting his stomach into tight little knots until it manifests itself as a low keening whine that he tries and fails to bury behind his teeth.

With an air of resignation he reaches out from underneath the suddenly suffocating warmth of the comforter with his left hand, allowing a momentary shudder at the chill before blindly groping about for the syringe on his nightstand. Only stopping with a groan that's half-pain half-relief when he feels cold plastic brush against stiff, numb digits, gripping it tight between his first three fingers and pulling it clumsily in front of his face.

Less than two weeks in and already it's becoming somewhat routine. Remove the cap and place it on his nightstand, three light taps at the tip of the needle with his fingernail, slight compression of the plunger to check for air bubbles.

Resist the urge to let them stay.

It's hard to feel anything but a vague sense of depression as his hands clumsily limp their way through the motions, because this is his life now, has been his life for the past week and will–presumably–continue to be a part of it for years to come.

Jaune throws his weight forward and hauls himself to a sitting position, before loosely flicking his left wrist back towards his chest and watching as his sleeve slides down to reveal his vein. Gritting his teeth he presses the tip of the needle against his arm, letting out a sharp hiss as it pierces skin. With a deep calming breath Jaune pushes down on the plunger; dropping the syringe by his side a moment later as he doubles over desperately clutching at his wrist with fire running through his veins. His vision blurs, goes a stark, blinding white as his aura fluctuates. Rapidly rising and falling enough times to make his head swim before finally settling as cold steel beneath his skin.

With a pained sigh of relief he slumps back against his pillow with bile rising in his throat and sweat beginning to seep and soak into his collar.

All in all, not the worst one this week.

With one shaking hand Jaune reaches back to his nightstand loosely gripping his scroll and pulling it close, taking extra care not to drop the damn thing because otherwise he's screwed.

He clears his throat and tries to ignore how the saliva sticks to the back like drying cement, clumsily running sweat steeped fingers over his scroll as he dials her number.

It takes a while, because for all his admittedly half-hearted efforts he still hasn't managed to fully memorize her number. Not to mention with his aura in a temporarily sedated state it's now almost impossible to ignore the somehow aching numbness that seems to have permanently taken up shop in his left hand.

He manages it eventually though, sinking even further into his pillow with sweat running down his brow in small rivers as the dial tone echoes throughout the room.

A short click announces her answer when she picks up, "Jaune?" She asks immediately, "Are you alright?"

His reply comes slowly, starting out as several deep gasping breaths as his lungs seize and jump painfully in his chest, "I'm-I'm fine." He finally manages to gasp, only to backpedal when the words finally manage to penetrate the soupy fog of his thoughts, "Ok wait, I'm not fine. Just took the dosage." He swallows again, feeling a strangely iron like taste at the back of his throat for what seems like the hundredth time this week. "Can you please come help me?"

There's a pause long enough where Jaune honestly can't help but wonder if she heard him or not, before a heavy series of _thuds_ emanating from outside his bedroom door alert him to her ascent. He can't help but sigh, only for it to turn into a wince his head throbs painfully from the exertion.

In hindsight he probably should have been more specific, ' _Really need to work on that.'_ He thinks with a laugh, only for his thoughts to be broken a knock at his door, tapped out in a hurried beat that if nothing else tells him the–admittedly nice–fact that yes, she is actually worried about him.

"Jaune." Jane calls through the door, before apparently deciding that privacy can go fuck itself as she turns the handle and storms inside, only stopping to lightly kick it closed behind herself.

To her credit she's at his side in an instant, lightly twirling the now empty syringe between the fingers of her left hand as she helps lift him into a sitting position with her right. There's a small hollow _thunk_ from the trashcan in the corner of the room and it takes Jaune a moment to realize that she's no longer holding the syringe, "Nice shot." He can't help but snark, before Jane pulling the back of his shirt up to his shoulders shuts him up.

There's a moment where all is still, and the only things Jaune's really aware of are the sound of blood roaring in his ears, and Jane's icy hand against his comparatively feverish skin. Light blooms at his back a few seconds later, and he can't help but let out a sigh of content as Jane sets to work.

"Tore some muscles below your left shoulder." She says, speech slight stilted as she stares at the spot beneath her hand with intense concentration. "How'd you manage to do that?"

Jaune's breath stills muscles drawing tight against his skin; and that just completely gave it away didn't it? He chooses to take her removing her hand as a yes.

"I could just not heal you."

Jaune doesn't reply, instead opting to continue staring blankly at the door.

"That includes your lung."

At least that actually manages to get a reaction out of him, his features crumpling into a pained grimace as he turns a glare back over his left shoulder, "Not my lung." He mutters, voice dark as he turns his gaze towards the mattress, "You know that."

Jane turns her gaze towards the dark patchwork bruising spread across Jaune's upper torso, each discoloration varying shades of purples, browns, and yellows. "Yeah." She mutters quietly, "I do."

Jaune heaves a heavy sigh that makes his shoulders shake with the force, "I...tried to do push-ups yesterday." He mutters, gaze softer but still pointedly turned down towards the mattress. "I know I shouldn't. But-" He trails off, clenching his hands into fists in his lap and hissing in pain through gritted teeth, "I can't just _sit_ here. I don't know why, but I just _can't_."

His breaths are starting to come fast, leaving in harsh heavy breaths that make his lungs ache with the force, and it's stupid that _this_ of all things would set him off but he's been on a hair trigger for days and he just can't stop.

Jane's hand abruptly slides a foot up his back, and Jaune somehow, miraculously, stops. The very beginnings of sobs slowly trail off in favor of tensing all the muscles up and down his spine. "Wh-what are you doing?" He asks, voice still shaking yet unburdened by the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes.

Jane lays her other hand against Jaune's left shoulder squeezing the muscle beneath her fingertips as she sets to work on his old wounds. "Everything seems to be okay." She says, slowly moving her hand in a circle around the right side of his back, "I'm not gonna torture you with too many details, but both walls and the three lobes seen in good shape."

"You're sure?" Jaune asks, sadness momentarily set aside in favor of the anxiety bubbling up in his chest.

"Yeah. I'm sure." Jane says, not yet lowering her hand as she brings it about in one more circle around his back, "It doesn't hurt or anything, does it?"

Jaune hesitates for a moment, and Jane is starting to get the feeling this will be like pulling teeth, "Yeah." He says, making her blink in surprise as he continues, "Not all the time, but if I breathe too deeply or get out of breath. Then yeah, it hurts."

Jane's brow furrows as she processes this new information, mentally combing through various medical knowledge until she speaks, "We'll have to get you on an I.V regimen then." Her nose crinkles in a sneer, "Syringe delivery must be wearing off too fast, it should be good for at least a day."

Jaune manages to give her an awkward attempt at a smirk over his left shoulder, "Well, it isn't."

" _But,_ you'll have to use the syringes while we're still out here."

"Why?"

"Best we can do out here. The nearest medical supplier is in Vale, and you'll be out there in a couple days." She says, continuing when she feels Jaune's muscles still tense against her hand. " _Relax_. I'll make some calls once we get in range of the tower, but that's the best I can do."

"Ok." Jaune says, voice quiet and still tinged with sadness, but his muscles slowly unknot into a semi-relaxed position. "Thank you."

"No problem." Jane replies, her hand finally coming to a stop at a specific spot on his back, and even though he's been expecting it the entire time he can't help but Jaune stiffen once more. His shoulders pulling forward as his left hand clumsily grips at the blanket in his lap, "The scarring still hasn't gone away." She says, gently running her hand over the 2 inch wide patch of gnarled skin so as not to make him even worse, "I thought I gave you some stuff to help with that."

Slowly Jaune unclenches his hand, dragging it upward and pulling against his ring and pinky finger with his left hand, feeling Jane cringe behind him when they straighten with a quiet _crick_ before dropping back down to his lap, "You did." He mutters quietly, "Musta used half of the bottle last night." He shrugs, feels the muscles in his chest and back twinge with the movement, and it shouldn't hurt so much but it _does_ , "I guess it didn't work." He breathes deep, notes the now absent seizing in his right lung.

"I hate this." He adds.

Jane slides her hand out from beneath his shirt, lays a hand against his shoulder before pulling him into her embrace, "I'm sorry." She says, voice heavy with something that sounds like guilt. Jaune breathes in deeply, feels her hair brushing across his face and in front of his eyes, her collarbone digging into his cheek, "I don't know what to do." Jane says, "We're gonna have to leave soon."

Her voice–a low alto that he honestly hasn't noticed before–reverberates through his chest in a way that burns and soothes at the same time, and it's stupid so very very _stupid_ and wrong and she shouldn't be the one _apologizing_. There's a sob welling up in his throat, choked and buried behind clenched teeth and stinging eyes, and it seems they weren't stopped so much as _delayed_.

So he hugs her back. Awkwardly lifting his right arm and curling it up and over her right shoulder while his left hand curls into something vaguely resembling a fist in his lap that aches with pins and needles when broken tendons and shredded nerves shift in a morbid dance beneath his skin.

"I'm sorry too."

Later, when the tears on his face have dried into his skin, and the ache in his hand has been replaced by a comfortable twinge in his side. Jane lets go, her face flushed with embarrassment and a sudden rush of self-consciousness that only a fifteen year old girl can ever hope to truly match, "Uh, sorry." She mutters, flicking at the right pocket of her jeans with her nails, "I kinda got a bit carried away there."

Jaune stares, watching as she twitches and fidgets with the hem of her jeans as she waits for a response, and it feels... _wrong_ in some weird kind of way. Second guesses and awkward conversational fumbling have always been more his area at the best of times, and it's just entirely too fucking weird seeing _Jane_ do it.

"Ya know." He snarks, momentarily regaining a bit of his lost courage, "Most people would take being hugged back as a sign of acceptance; did you miss the memo or something?" He lightly raps his knuckles against her side, feels stiff fingers reset with a silent creak, "You're fine."

He can't help but feel a strange kind of satisfaction when her eyes light up, almost instinctively reaching out her hand towards his head, "Jerk." She mutters fondly, before lightly knocking the back of her hand against his forehead.

Only to lower it with a suddenly stricken expression a moment later, curling her hand in towards her chest and pressing the bones of her knuckles against her sternum hard enough that Jaune's certain it will leave a mark.

Oh great, " _Relax_." He parrots, rolling his eyes in a deliberate attempt to play it off, "C'mon, it's not like I'm made of glass."

"I know." Jane replies, nervously running a hand through her hair and letting it fall in front of her eyes in stray unkempt strands, "I know you're okay, I really do." She hesitates, teases the bracelet around her wrist with her fingers, "But that doesn't make it easier. Everytime I look at you it's hard not to think of-" she stops, averts her eyes as the metal figures around her wrist jingle louder than before, "Well, you know."

"Yeah, I do." Jaune says, slowly reaching his left hand over his chest, squeezing down hard against broken gnarled skin. "It still hurts." He says, only to continue when Jane raises her hand once more, "N-No, we went over this, I already told you everything. And you did a good job it's just-" He squeezes harder, awkwardly wrapping his fingers up in his shirt as he pulls the fabric away from his chest, "It's hard to sleep, everytime I close my eyes it just...hurts."

 _The_ _sharp_ _stab_ _of_ _steel_ _shifting_ _beneath_ _his_ _skin_ , _bark_ _scratching_ _at_ _the_ _palm_ _of_ _his_ _hand_ _and_ _freshly_ _damp_ _morning_ _grass_ _slowly_ _staining_ _his_ _jeans_ _with_ _dew. A_ _flash_ _of_ _light_ , _a_ _roar_ _of_ _thunder_ _that_ _leaves_ _his_ _ears_ _trembling_ _and_ _ringing_ _in_ _recoil_ _as_ _the_ _smell_ _of_ _smoke_ and blood _fills_ _his_ _lungs._

It not surprising that it's hard to sleep sometimes.

Jane opens her mouth to speak, before closing it with a quiet _pop_ of her lips. Seemingly thinking of something as a small bit of light returns to her eyes, reaching down and unfastening the pouch at her hip, digging through it's contents in awkward silence until she finds what she wants.

"Uh, here." Jane says, reaching out and laying something soft in his right hand, before closing it into a fist around the fabric. "I-uh, I noticed you were staring at your hands a few days ago. So I uh-" She stops, turning her gaze off to the left with suddenly rosy cheeks, "I made these for you."

Jaune unfurls his hand to look down at the pitch black fabric, giving a surprised blink when he finally notices their shape, "You made me gloves." He says, momentarily dumbstruck before snapping back to reality under the weight of Jane's anxious gazing out the corner of her eye. Clumsily gripping the bottom of one with his left hand, holding it in place as he slides it over his right hand. It's soft, very soft, and Jane must have measured his hands or something because when he curls it into a fist the fabric pulls taut over his skin, not restricting his movement in the slightest. "Can you help me with the other one?" He asks, quickly burying the bitter taste of shame that comes with it.

Jane blinks, before leaning forward and clutching the glove between two fingers, "No problem." She says quickly, placing her hand on the side and rolling it forward like a sock, "Sorry, wasn't really thinking."

Jaune lifts his left hand and tries and fails to ignore the sight of the two jagged lines spanning his fourth and fifth fingers from knuckle to fingertip, the once bright angry red having faded to a slightly fleshy pink. It's impossible not to think of the what if's; what if he hadn't stumbled, what if he'd managed to dodge, what if he'd managed to block the incoming stab, what if they hadn't even gone out into the woods in the first place?

Jaune isn't an idiot, and torturing himself with the what if's and what might have beens isn't healthy. But it's...hard to not think about it, when the house is dark and his sisters say their goodnights, before Jane in particular retires to the room on the other side of his wall. Leaving him to curl up in bed with the low light of a lamp shining in his face as he stares down at his hands, feeling the phantom burn of steel and a cold wind whispering it's way through his chest.

He hasn't slept with the lights off for the past two weeks, and it's the most pathetic feeling to be afraid of the dark at fifteen, yet every time he tries the entire night consists of him jumping at shadows and ignoring the whispers of a dead man and the bastards that killed him.

His thoughts are broken by fabric sliding across his skin, catching slightly against his skin before Jane forces it over with a silent curse, "There." She says, leaning back with a satisfied grin, "How do they feel?"

Jaune tugs at the end of the left glove, before clasping the fingers at the end and pushing inward making it settle into a fist with a _creak_. "Pretty good actually." He says with a grin, "Thank you."

Jane blushes with embarrassment, reaching back to rub at the nape of her neck, "You're welcome." She says.

"Aww." Somebody suddenly snarks across the room, their voice dark and dry with something that to Jaune's ears sounds vaguely like contempt, "Am I interrupting something?"

Jaune doesn't think. Just lets his instincts take over, the muscles in his legs curling in and undulating as he leaps out of bed with his right hand already halfway to his waist. Only to stumble when his feet touch the floor, his legs giving out the instant he actually has to support his own weight, his right hand blindly groping about his waist as he falls. Feeling a massive wave of confusion when he only feels the soft, slightly scratchy cotton of his pajamas beneath his fingertips. ' _Oh, right.'_ He thinks, watching the carpet rapidly rising up to meet his face his face, ' _Damn.'_

In the end it's Jane who catches him, although just barely. Grabbing at the edge of his shirt as he falls pulling hard and no doubt irreversibly stretching the fabric. His left shoulder hits the floor hard a moment later, and even though it's carpet Jaune has to bite back curses as the impact rattles throughout his chest with agonizing effect, "Sorry!" She says, quickly hooking an arm under his right and laying her hand against his chest, "Are you okay?"

"Peachy." Jaune replies through gritted teeth, curling his right hand up in his shirt and biting back a scream, "Do me a favor." He says, voice suspiciously high and tight like he's been hit somewhere else instead, "Add sudden muscle weakness to the list of side effects."

"Got it." Jane says, before pulling hard on his shoulder and slowly helping him stagger back to his feet. "Think you can stand on your own?" She asks, sliding a hand down to the middle of his back, "Or are you gonna face plant the second I let go?"

If he's honest with himself the odds are at about a 60/40 chance towards him collapsing, but he's never really been one for taking the wisest decisions anyway. So Jaune swallows another groan when the fire in his lung flares bright once more, "Probably fine." He decides.

"Okay." Jane says, slowly releasing her grip on his arm and back and slowly stepping away with her hands still raised, ready to catch him again just in case.

Jaune stumbles slightly a moment later, but thankfully his training kicks in before Jane has time to react. He turns on his heel and just barely manages to slam his forearm against the wall before he hits the ground. "I'm fine." He manages to wheeze before Jane grabs at him again, choking back bile when it starts to claw its way up his throat, ' _Shit. Gotta get her out of here.'_ "Just go eat breakfast or something." He says, words coming fast in an attempt to drown out any potential protests. "I'll be down in a little while."

Jane blinks at the sudden shift of topics, "Uh, what?" She says, looking across the room to the man stood silently at the window, "Are you sure about that?"

Jaune breathes out through his nose, nearly gags when bile rises in his throat once more, "Yeah, it's fine." He says, blindly waving towards the door with his left hand, "Have fun."

"...Ok." Jane says, one eyebrow raised high as she slowly strides her way over to the bedroom door, "See you in a while then." The door closes behind her with a soft _click_ as she makes her way downstairs.

"Now kid." The man at the window says, stepping forward with hands lazily slumped into his pockets, "Let's get down to; hey!" He yells as Jaune suddenly rushes towards him, digging an elbow into his side and shoving him out of the way as he makes an apparent beeline for the window.

The man groans from his place on the floor, reaching up to rub at his now aching ribs, "What the hell was that for?" He asks, glaring at Jaune, only to pause when the sound of…' _Oh god is that liquid?'_ splattering across the ground hits his ears.

"You're vomiting aren't you?" He asks, reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, "Ya know, not that I enjoy getting puked on. But you could have _asked_ me to move." He pushes himself back up to a standing position before lightly stomping his foot against the carpet, "I mean, I do have legs, and they're kinda useful for the whole 'getting out of the way' thing."

Jaune groans, leaning his head back into gargle, "Fuck you Qrow." Before another retch wracks his body and he leans back out the window with a long drawn out groan.

"Eloquent as always." Qrow says, his voice low and dark enough to keep Jaune from hearing. He lazily walks his way over to the window, awkwardly reaching up and hesitantly laying a hand across Jaune's left shoulder blade, "Come on kid." He says, gently rubbing his hand in circles like Raven used to do when he was sick as a kid.

And pointedly ignoring the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Tai ranting about him spending more time with some kid than his own flesh and blood.

Qrow can't help but grimace at that thought, his throat burning hot and dry with a sudden need for a bottle. ' _I need to make some calls once this is all over.'_ He decides, absently continuing to rub small circles into Jaune's shoulder. ' _Besides, need to see how Ruby's doing with her scythe.'_

"Ugh." Jaune groans miserably, swallowing back bile with a loud gulp as he pushes himself back up with his hands, "I'm-I'm okay. Can you back up; kinda don't want to smell this."

Qrow backs up a step rubbing at the back of his neck with a slightly embarrassed flush that is thankfully at least mostly covered by the scruffy excuse for facial hair across his face. Raven had used to nag him about shaving when they were younger, always using the same old line that was basically something about him looking more like a dog than a crow. ' _And look how that turned out.'_

"Yeah, sorry." He says, "Got distracted there; you feeling any better?"

Jaune's reply comes in the form of a rather deadpan stare, which is probably fair enough considering Qrow had known the answer before the words had even been out of his mouth. With a gaunt expression only made worse by deep purple bruises under both of his eyes, and a t-shirt and jeans that are more or less hanging off of his frame Jaune looks absolutely awful. "Not really." He replies, trying to sound annoyed but coming across as exhausted instead.

' _Come on kid, you need to eat.'_ Qrow thinks. What he says is, "Yeah, figured." Before reaching out and pointing at the collar of his shirt with one finger, taking extra care to keep it at least an inch away from actually touching it, "You might wanna change, got some of it on your shirt."

Jaune just growls under his breath, slowly making his way around Qrow and over to his dresser at the other side of the room, clumsily pulling the hem of his shirt up and over his head and blinding throwing it back over his shoulder for Qrow to catch. "Burn that, please?" He asks as he pulls open the second drawer and starts rummaging around for a new shirt.

"Sure." Qrow drawls, before slowly stepping his way back towards the window and dropping the shirt outside. He withdraws a small vial from his back pocket, pulling the cork and pouring a _very_

tiny amount down with it, then immediately replaces the cap when the smell of burning fabric reaches his nostrils.

"So!" Jaune says, making him jump and slam his elbow against the window with surprise turning on his heel to face Jaune, now clad in a black t-shirt and currently struggling with pulling a blue hoodie over his head. "What did you wanna talk about?"

' _Oh yeah.'_ Qrow thinks, coughs into his hand to buy himself a little bit of time, and tries not to slump even further when the weight at the back of his belt becomes especially noticeable. "I uh, I went back to the clearing...and I found this."

He reaches back behind his cloak undoing the latch on his belt and hooking two fingers underneath the hard ceramic ridge. With a heavy sigh Qrow brings it forward, feeling a torrent of guilt flood his throat when Jaune's eyes go wide.

"How did you know about that?" Jaune asks, stepping back on suddenly unsteady legs until his back collides hard against his dresser, "I didn't tell anybody about that."

It's grey and shaped like a macabre version of something one would wear at a masquerade, it's structure tapering off on both sides into a point that extends just past where a person's nose would be. With four slits across the faceplate meant to act as eyeholes and mostly blank features it's an actually more than decent approximation of what a Nevermore would look like.

"You mentioned one of the attackers had a tail." Qrow says, his eyes dark and filled with a mix of pity and regret that makes Jaune's stomach twist itself into a painful knot, "I just put the pieces together." He moves his hand back beneath his cloak, sliding the mask back into place with an audible _click_ , "Honestly I was kinda hoping it was just a weird coincidence. Guess we weren't that lucky."

Jaune takes one cautious step forward, making sure to keep his right arm braced back against the dresser while he regains his footing. Taking extra care to flex what muscles that he can in his left, and trying to not make its slow crawl towards the door handle too obvious. "Do you know what they wanted with us?" He asks, his throat suddenly bone-dry, "I'm not stupid. I know what the White Fang is, but why did they target _us_ specifically?"

"Not sure you wanna know the answer to that one." Qrow says, only to heave a heavy sigh at Jaune's insistent glare in response, "Okay okay, uh fuck, how do I put this?" Qrow says, nervously running a hand through salt and pepper hair as he gathers his thoughts.

There's a beat of silence where all Jaune can hear is the sound of blood roaring in his ears, only made worse when it's compounded by the sound of his heart punching out a sledgehammer beat against his ribs.

"It might have been your dad's fault." Qrow finally says, before cringing at how horrendously awful an idea it is to start that way, "Just-Just let me explain." He says, crossing back over to Jaune's bed in three long strides before slumping down with a _creak_ as the mattress compresses beneath him.

The dryness in his throat is back with a vengeance. What was once a slight sense of want at the middle of his tongue now grown into a scrabbling desperation that settles into his teeth until he almost wants to bite something to make the ache subside.

Qrow reaches behind his cloak, withdrawing a worn metal flask from his belt and reaching up to unscrew the cap with deceptively steady fingers. There's a short rush of shame that threatens to block his throat and strangle the breath from his lungs. He swallows it with a sip of whisky, tells himself the burning in his chest that makes him cough into his hand is because of the liquor.

In the end he almost manages to convince himself.

"Your family has a long and documented history of supporting faunus rights." He finally starts, watching as Jaune manages to settle himself back into a somewhat calm demeanor, slowly sliding down his dresser until he's sat with his back against it. "And when I say long, I mean _long._ You could probably find papers dating back to the very beginning of the faunus rights movement in your attic."

He forces a chuckle up from his throat, searching about for something to lighten the mood "Or at least you can if Elias bothered to keep track of the copies." He says with an almost nostalgic smirk, "I've known him for more than twenty years, and if there's one thing I can say for sure; it's that Elias Arc was god awful at hanging onto things."

"His wedding ring." Jaune retorts quietly, before shifting uncomfortably when Qrow turns a suddenly sharp eye back in his direction.

"What?" Qrow asks, voice incredulous.

"His wedding ring." Jaune repeats, before hesitantly reaching up to pull out the drawer above his head. Curling his right hand up and over the rim before withdrawing it with something tightly clutched in its palm, "I know it's a cliche or whatever; but I really don't think I've ever seen him without it."

Qrow visibly winces from his spot on the bed, "Your mom really did a number on him, huh?"

Jaune just shrugs, "I guess." He says quietly, before gently unfurling his hand to stare down at the faded golden band that had adorned his father's hand for twenty-six years, "She did a number on all of us."

For the first time that morning the silence that falls over them is a comfortable one. Built upon an air of nostalgia and the painful twinge of grief and regret. Qrow just leans back against the bed and stares up at the ceiling when he hears Jaune sniffle to his left. There's still work to be done, but the least he can do is spare him an audience.

Qrow looks back down once the sniffling tapers off, waiting until he hears the drawer slide closed before actually turning his head to the left. "You okay?" He asks, only barely managing to stop himself from face palming when his brain catches up.

Thankfully Jaune just nods, reaching up and running his sleeve across his eyes as he sniffles once more, "Yeah." He says quietly, "Still kind of a wreck; might be more of one in five minutes. But for now...for now I'm good."

"Good." Qrow says, giving a Jaune a half-smirk that has him leaning back against the dresser in comfort. "Like I was saying, your family used to be pretty involved in faunus rights. But the thing is, your family officially withdrew their support about 28 years ago. No more money, no more speeches, rallies, _nothing_. All of it stopped."

"And I think there might be some people in the White Fang who didn't like that."

Jaune seems to visibly deflate, slouching just a bit lower and curling his knees up to his chest, "I don't know why you're asking _me_." Jaune says quietly, staring down at the floor between his knees with a near absent gaze, "I don't know anything about that." He says, only to backpedal at Qrow's questioning stare. "Crocea told me about the various wars she'd been through, but aside from the occasional reference she never actually mentioned anything about Faunus rights."

"We'll come back to this in a minute. Because this is the one part that I have trouble believing." Qrow interjects, "And even though I'm sure she'll swear up and down that she didn't; Jane told me about your supposed semblance. And frankly; I find the entire idea in itself to be a little bit hard to believe." Qrow says, gently clapping one palm against his knee and giving Jaune a look that he hopes can convey his doubt _and_ guilt for doubting him at the same time.

"Ok." Jaune says blankly, slowly straightening against his dresser, scrabbling at the wood with his fingers until he finally manages to catch a hold. Pulling himself up and onto his feet in one smooth motion that would almost be impressive if it weren't for the way that his trembling legs make the foundation of the illusion just as unsteady. "What can I do to prove it to you?"

Qrow blinks, "Wait, what?"

Jaune just nods, reaching out and leaning his left arm against the dresser to keep himself standing. "You need answers." He wheezes, as several drops of sweat start to bead up and run down his forehead, "And I might-let me say that again, _might._ Have some of them." He straightens, slowly limping his way over to his bed on legs made of jelly. Before throwing himself backwards on to the mattress as blood roars in his ears.

Jaune closes his eyes, takes a deep breath as he prods at his aura. It's a strange sensation to say the least; and in fairness, he's only just recently awakened it so that's to be expected.

But Jane has always described hers as a sort of rush, feeling like liquid pulsing throughout her entire being and a thrum of heat pooling in her chest. And yet at the moment his own seems more like gel, slightly cold and sluggish. ' _Must_ _be the drugs.'_ Jaune thinks with a grimace, before clumsily pushing beneath the surface.

A wave of numbing cold forms a stranglehold over his limbs, liquid steel stutters and struggles through his veins and rises beneath his skin. He drags a hand across his sternum, presses hard against it with the heel of his palm when his lung seizes. Constricting the flow of oxygen and making his entire body ache like somebody's taken a sledgehammer to it.

It collapses into an actually usable state a moment later, leaving Jaune to pull his hoodie even closer around his skin in a fruitless attempt to restore some of his body heat. Breathing out with several quick rapid breaths that he's almost certain are visible in the air.

It's only then that he notices Qrow leaned over him, one hand shoved against his wrist while the other is crammed halfway up his shirt. And all things considered; this is about the most awkward thing that's happened this year. "Qrow." Jaune wheezes, voice weak and what he hopes comes across as foreboding, "If you don't remove your hand _right_ now." His voice tapers off only to be replaced by a glower that conveys his point just as well as an actual death threat.

Thankfully Qrow looks equally as mortified, springing away from him and onto his feet with words already tumbling out of his mouth, "Now hold on! If you actually think-Are you really so-" Only to stop when the realization hits that yes, that is _exactly_ what it looked like he was doing.

"I was _checking_ your pulse." He finally grinds out through tightly gritted teeth, swallowing a not insignificant amount of anger at Jaune's accusation. Even if it _did_ look like that, he can't just accuse him of something like... _that_ if just ridiculous. "Kid, you looked like you were having a heart attack or some shit; okay?"

Jaune goes still. Raises his left hand from his sternum and haphazardly jams the first two fingers against the side of his neck while the other presses hard against his right pectoral muscle, "Are you serious?" He asks, voice quiet, blue eyes wide and afraid.

Qrow swallows, raises a hand and runs it roughly through his hair. "I don't-I don't know." He finally says, suddenly uncertain when put on the line. "I'm not a doctor, ya know? But it definitely looked like it."

Jaune closes his eyes, focuses on the agony in his chest and the nauseating taste of fear lapping at the back of his throat. ' _Don't freak out. Don't freak out.'_ "Just go get your scythe." He finally says, feeling a strange kind of satisfaction at the baffled look on Qrow's face.

"Are you stupid or something?" Qrow asks, voice dark and full of a sudden anger that has Jaune nearly reeling with surprise. He hadn't accounted for this, honestly hadn't thought that his own well being would elicit this type of reaction from somebody he's known for less than a week at most.

Which is _really_ bad, because the numbness is coming back. Joined by the nearly deafening sound of his heartbeat reverberating in his ears like a great bell. The world blurs, coalescing into a twisted kaleidoscope of light and sound and greys and blues. A sharp pain starts up in his chest and it's suddenly much harder to breathe.

Her voice is in his head again; so faint and yet at the same time the loudest sound he's ever heard in his entire life.

' _Don't freak out. Don't freak out.'_

 _ **Run.**_

He's on the other side of the room now. Sat in a corner with his knees pulled hard against his chest and the edge of the room against his back. He's always thought that it was such a cliche when people would do this; would huddle up in the corner like a sniveling child and stare off into nothing, but it makes so much sense now. The corner is safe, secure. A place where everything is in his range of sight and nothing can come at him from behind.

He's proven wrong when a hand grips at his shoulder, scrapes across his scar when its grip loosens and lowers from his struggling, and he bats it away with a strangled scream tearing its way out of his throat. Jaune kicks out with his leg, feels it twist and sink into something solid, and even in his weak and panic addled state there's a sick rush of satisfaction when he feels a wet _pop_ and a hard _crack_ as they disconnect.

For Jaune there is no separation of consciousness anymore, no emotional and rational disconnect in his mind. It's all light and sound, pain and tears and the ever looming sense that he's going to die.

There's a sharp stinging sensation from the crook of his right arm, the mind numbing agony of metal scraping against bone. Something darts forward and takes a firm hold of his wrist, and the metal pierces his skin once more.

"Is he out?" Qrow asks, cautiously stood a few feet back with the heel of his palm pressed tightly against his side, quietly hissing through his teeth.

Jean is the one who answers, gently releasing her grip around Jaune's right hand and pressing her hands against her knees as she hauls herself up from the balls of her feet. "Yeah." She says, looking down at Jaune's now slack face as Jane sets to work on sterilizing the injection site, "He's out."

Jane lays her hand over the puncture in his arm, closes her eyes and breathes out slowly through her nose. A warm white light emanates from her hand, making Qrow take a half step back with an arm over his eyes, "Give a guy some warning will ya?"

Jean snorts to his right, "Yeah, sure." She says with a sardonic expression, "Need anything else? A pillow, some flowers?"

"Jean." Jane interrupts, effectively killing the conversation as said girl turns her gaze back to her younger siblings.

"Yeah?"

Jane heaves a sigh, removing her hand from his arm and wiping a few stray drops of sweat from her brow before she speaks, "Help me get him back into bed; we need to get out of here fast."

"So we're doing the regular thing again?"

"Regular?" Qrow asks, back now pressed up against the opposite wall, his cloak removed from his back and wrapped around his chest on the inside of his suit jacket. "You mean this has happened before?"

Jane gives her sister a look, heaving a dramatic sigh before replying, "Uh, yeah. This...is the third time since dad's death." Her face takes on a stricken expression as Jean steps forward to continue.

"I was supposed to talk to him about it tomorrow." Jean turns her gaze back over her shoulder towards Jaune, lazily sliding hands into her pocket and failing to look casual when it takes three attempts due to her shaking hands, "I'll do it when he wakes up."

Qrow silently processes this new information, before finally deciding that this is too damned early in the day for stuff like this. "So." He starts, taking a few long steps and crouching down to snag his flask off the floor, "How'd you manage to pull that off?" He should probably feel bad when Jane visibly flinches, while Jean slouches slightly and reaches back to scratch at her shoulder with an entirely awkward expression.

Instead he undoes the cap on the worn metal flask, taking a long swig and savoring the fire that blossoms like roses in his chest.

Detached has always been more of his style anyway.

"Propofol." Jane finally answers, looking so pale that Qrow is honestly starting to wonder if she's going to have a breakdown too. "It uh, it's a sedative that usually makes it to where the subject doesn't remember about five minutes before the injection."

If there's any answer he had been expecting, _that_ is most certainly not one of them. Qrow reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, anger sparking up into a fire inside his chest and the 'detached' attitude dies a very painful death, "Look. I'm not the greatest guy; _so_ in the interest of not be a hypocrite, for just a minute. I'm going to ignore how _incredibly_ _immoral_ this is!" Both girls flinch when his voice suddenly spikes in volume, echoing like a siren throughout the large room.

Qrow takes a breath, has another deep swig of whiskey, ' _Don't flip out. Don't flip out.'_ His friend is dead and two of his kids have been sedating the other and he will _not flip out_. "Just-just explain. Please; preferably before I actually lose my mind."

Apparently today's goal is to give him a heart attack, because Jean abruptly pulls down the front of her shirt, revealing pale white skin that immediately has Qrow averting his gaze. Because while he may be a _shameless_ flirt; there are lines, and his friends kids crosses basically every single one of them all at once.

"Not like that you drunk!" Jean snaps, while Qrow just barely manages to see her staring up at the ceiling with flushed cheeks out the corner of his eye, "Just look."

Qrow lowers his gaze and almost immediately spots the long jagged white line that starts at her collarbone, before continuing onward down and below her bra and chest. "How the hell did that happen?"

Jean doesn't reply, in favor of turning back towards Jaune's crumpled form. Crouching down on the balls of her feet and gently hooking her arm under the backs of his legs, while wrapping the back of his shirt around her other in a tight knot. With a grunt she pushes off the floor with her feet, straightening almost instantly, barely managing to catch herself from tumbling backwards with Jaune still tightly held in her grip.

"I'm fine." She manages to say before the others reach out to catch her, "He's just-" She trips over her words, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping at the hook, "Lighter than I thought he would be." She finally manages to sputter.

Jean takes several slow measured steps towards the bed; muscles and tendons unnaturally tense for fear of dropping her brother. Or worse, having him wake up and attack her in a foggy haze of sedatives and fear.

Thankfully the world must decide to grant her this small mercy. Because Jean easily settles him back atop the mattress, making sure to leave his side once she's checked his breathing. Because _again,_ probably not a good idea for a traumatized fifteen year old to wake up with someone looming over him like a goddamn phantom.

"Okay. Let's get out of here." Jane says, quickly shoving Qrow out the door, with Jean lazily slinking out the door behind him. The door closes and they're all stood out in the hallway, with Qrow leaned up against the opposite door and Jean stood to her right against the wall.

"Okay." Qrow starts, eyes still dark and _something_ flickering beneath the wine-red surface that makes her think of a rushing, crushing black and blood dripping off a knife. "Talk. No bullshit, or lies. Just. Talk." Qrow says, punctuating his words with an angry almost snarl spread across his face.

Jean straightens, hands sliding out of her pockets and lazily tapping against the wall as she replies, "When he woke up. After dad was-" The beat falters almost immediately, and Jean shoves her hands back down by her side with a frustrated scowl, "He freaked out when he woke up." She says, looking directly across into Qrow's eyes without fear, "Started yelling about dad and just kept asking me where he was, if he was hurt."

There's a low loud _bang!_ directly to Jane's right, making her jolt in surprise, "Was everybody _okay."_ Jean says, forcing the words through tightly gritted teeth. There's a twist, a shift in the wall at her back. And Jean harshly jerks her foot forward, not caring for the small white bits of plaster that come with it, each chunk hanging in the air like snowflakes before finally settling onto the floor.

Her little brother nearly _dies_ , and the first thing he asks is if everybody else is _okay_.

' _Goddammit.'_

Another scowl works its way onto her face, muscles draw taut and relax seemingly at random under her shirt while her shoulders rise high and tight on her frame. For a moment Jane is genuinely starting to worry about the future of her bedroom walls.

Only for Jean to breathe out her anger a moment later, the rush of air resembling a Grimm's snarl as it leaves her lungs. "Everything is so fucked."

Qrow just stands still, arms crossed over his still aching chest like a sentry, silently passing judgement upon them for their actions.

Once Jean has finally managed to bring her anger back down to manageable levels, She tilts her head down towards her scar before pulling back to meet Qrow's eyes. "If you're still wondering about that; his sword was next to him when he woke up. I don't know why any of us thought that was a good idea, call it a lack of sleep or some shit, all I know is that it shouldn't have been there."

She stops, listening carefully through the door for any signs that her outburst might have woke Jaune up, before continuing when there's only silence, "When he started panicking I leaned over him, tried to put my hands on his shoulders." Qrow snorts with noticeable disdain and she brushes it off with an almost embarrassed huff, "Yeah, I know."

"Okay." Qrow says slowly, feeling the words twist and contort in his mouth before he's even uttered them, "So he had a panic attack when he woke up, and slashed you when you tried to help." He settles back with another glare when a new question comes into his mind, and honestly for their sakes he'd better like the answer. "Did you sedate him then?"

"I was _bleeding_ all over him." Jean says, her words carrying an air of annoyance that is immediately quelled when Qrow turns his gaze back in her direction, "Of course we did, it was just making him worse."

Qrow accepts that with a nod, before pushing off the wall with his palm, taking a few tender steps to his right with one hand still jammed up against his makeshift bindings, "Ok." He says, easily turning back on his heel to face them once more, "Why did you sedate him a second time?"

Jane blinks, slowly turning her head to meet his eyes with a bemused expression splayed across her face, at least until her bangs fall down and cover it, "Yeah, no." Qrow says, giving a smirk that if he's honest, should probably get him punched. "Neither of you are getting off the hook; not until I get all the info I need."

"And if we don't?" Jane asks slowly. Curiosity overriding self-preservation.

If anything Qrow's smirk just grows wider. A nearly imperceptible chill descends over the hallway, and Jane is very suddenly regretting the decision to leave her daggers downstairs, "We both know you don't actually want me to answer that."

To her credit Jean shrugs off his thinly veiled threats with ease, the only indication that she's even bothered to muster up the energy to care being a minute twitch in her hands that has her clenching and unclenching them at her side. She works her jaw back and forth, lips slowly parting to utter her reply.

Jane interrupts her, quickly knocking a hand against her wrist as she shoots her a look that could roughly be translated as, 'Sarcasm isn't a good idea right now.'

She ignores Jean's falsely wounded look in favor of turning back towards Qrow and swallowing down her own apprehension, "The second time we had to sedate him when he-" Her words break off suddenly, her fingers curling up into fists as she takes a deep breath that reverberates through her chest like a gong.

"Turned the sword on himself." Jean answers for her, an intensely uncomfortable expression plainly displayed on her features. They've never gotten along; still might not even with the recent series of tragedies. But she'd like to think that even at her worst, the idea of Jaune harming himself would turn her stomach as much as it does now.

If it were any other time, she'd probably feel proud at Qrow's reaction. Now, watching as he's stood with a thunderstruck look and his already pale skin a half-shade paler; all she can feel is nauseous.

Any further discussion is cut, somewhat mercifully, short when the sound of a bed creaking echoes out from Jaune's bedroom door.

"Drugs must already be wearing off." Qrow mutters under his breath, heaving a heavy sigh as he turns the door handle. Only to stop with a

curse when a sudden thought comes to him. "Hey." He says, hesitantly turning back towards the two sisters, every movement betraying his apprehension with what he's about to say.

"Can you bring my scythe up here for me?" He asks, reaching up to rub at the nape of his neck with one hand, breathing out some of his visible agitation with a short, quick breath, "The kid wanted to see it." Muscles tighten, and the doorknob creaks under the force of his suddenly white-knuckled grip, "Think I should give him the benefit of the doubt."

A hand claps down over his left shoulder the grip high and loose against his lithe muscular frame, "Just bring him down to the kitchen." Jean says, voice drawn and resigned in a way that suggests she really doesn't like where this is going, but also doesn't have a better alternative, "And...give me half an hour with him, _alone_. Before you both start _experimenting_ or whatever, Ok?" She turns on her heel before he can even manage to answer, quickly walking to the end of the hall and disappearing behind the corner.

Qrow just shoots Jane an inquisitive look that she brushes off with a shrug of her own, "I dunno." She says, reaching up to brush away several long blonde strands of hair when they fall in front of her face, "Said she would talk to him; probably just doing that."

"And you don't have a problem with that?"

Jane shrugs again, "Not really." She answers dully, before hesitating at how callous her words come across. "For all my training I'm not exactly the kind of person you'd call for emotional issues. I can play the part, give out hugs and words of support. But hell, everyone else can too, because it's kind of natural, ya know?" Nimble fingers twirl the bracelet on her wrist back and forth, back and forth, "She isn't either, just so we're clear. But still, she might be able to help in some way you and I just... _can't_."

"You really believe that?"

She chuckles, a low even alto that carries a hint of sadness balanced on the cusp of the sound, "Kinda have to at this point. Don't I?"

Qrow's reply comes in the form of a small click as he closes the door behind himself.

 _Jean_

She takes the stairs slowly, sock-clad feet moving down the stairs inch-by-inch as if she were a prisoner being marched towards the gallows. The thick bundles of cardboard and paper clutched tightly between her fingers; her manifesto, words laid plainly in ink as proof to her sins.

Melodramatic perhaps, but right now it feels almost disconcertingly appropriate.

She doesn't walk into the kitchen, so much as stomp. Big pounding footsteps that announce her apprehension with every single punching step against the floor. She slides into the chair across from where she knows he's sitting, swallows roughly, staring down at the papers in her hand.

Jean can feel his curious gaze boring into her, it's been so long since she's felt like this. Since she's felt so unsure of what she's going to do next; it used to be that she'd just do something, act on instinct and emotion and damn anybody who dared have a problem with it. Jean can't help but laugh at that, ' _That's what I'm doing now though, isn't it?'_

But things change, no matter how gradual the shift may seem that doesn't mean that one hasn't occurred. And while even to the most passive observer it's obvious that she still has a long way to go, this might as well be the start.

So with a mostly steady hand Jean lays the bundle on the tabletop with a low slap, lifting her head to look across at Jaune.

Melting ice meets dulled cobalt, and she gives him her best approximation of a calming grin.

"We need to talk."

 **Chapter finally done.**

 **Just to address what I know will be mentioned in at least a couple reviews: Yes, what happened to Jaune physically and the entire family emotionally has been planned for a long while. I know that it might not seem like it, but remember that I rewrote my plans for this story four months ago. The only reason it may feel really short to some of you is because you're either a new reader (in which case, welcome!) or because frankly, I'm really goddamn bad at updating.**

 **Anything that has happened to these characters is being used for further character development, and while admittedly my writing could use a lot of work (which is why I'm writing this about a series I love in the first place) I'm not pulling the "rule of cool" bullshit.**

 **The next chapter will be released when it's done. I know that's vague, but I'm not going to make any more promises I've clearly shown I can't follow through on.**

 **(Anything below this line is me addressing feedback, I'm not naming names and I genuinely just want to hear readers thoughts. If this doesn't interest you, please feel free to exit this update. Believe me, you don't owe me reviews or whatever if you just couldn't care less.)**

 **Okay onto my questions: How do you feel about Jean? Now hear me out for a second when I say what I'm about to say, I may have fucked up here.**

 **Because, and I will not reveal literally any story spoilers beyond this: She's supposed to be kind of a major recurring character. And I have a few arcs mapped out for how she's supposed to grow as a character, to improve beyond the sense of "Oh god how the hell am I supposed to hate him now?"**

 **And judging by the reviews from the last chapter (which I think all of but one called for her to die a violent death) this might be a problem.**

 **So, is anybody actually interested in that? Don't worry she wouldn't replace or shove aside Jaune's own story in favor of forced in "Character development" but I'll admit that even though I try to review feedback with a completely neutral perspective. The sight of the more vocal readers calling for the death of the star of what I genuinely might be one of the arcs I'm looking to writing the most has me mildly terrified if my readers will just drop this story like a bad habit.**

 **So if you're gonna answer any questions I suppose I'd appreciate that one the most, so thank you for reading you guys.**


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